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PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 



















PAUL AND VIRGINIA, 


BERNARDIN DE SAINT PIERRE. 


MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 


CHICAGO, NEW YORK AND SAN FRANCISCO: 
BELFORD, CLARKE & CO. 

1888. 




By Transfer 
Maritime Comm. 


SEP 3 1940 



PREFACE. 


In introducing to the Public the present edition of 
this well known and affecting Tale,—the chef-d' oeuvre of 
its gifted author, the Publishers take occasion to say, 
that it affords them no little gratification, to apprise the 
numerous admirers of “ Paul and Virginia, 1 ” that the 
entire work of St. Pierre is now presented to them. All the 
previous editions have been disfigured by interpolations, 
and mutilated by numerous omissions and alterations, 
which have had the effect of reducing it from the rank of 
a Philosophical Tale, to the level of a mere story for 
' children. 

Of the merits of “ Paul and Virginia/' it is hardly 
necessary to utter a word ; it tells its own story elo¬ 
quently and impressively, and in a language simple, 
natural and true, it touches the common heart of the 
i world. There are but few works that have obtained a 
greater degree of popularity, none are more deserving it; 
and the Publishers cannot therefore refrain from express¬ 
ing a hope that their efforts in thus giving a faithful 

0 ) 





4 


PREFACE. 


transcript of the work,—an acknowledged classic by the 
European world,—may be, in some degree, instrumental 
in awakening here, at home, a taste for those higher 
works of Fancy, which, while they seek to elevate and 
strengthen the understanding, instruct and purify the 
heart. It is in this character that the Tale of “ Paul and 
Virginia” ranks pre-eminent. 





MEMOIR 


OF 

BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE 


Love of Nature, that strong feeling of enthusiasm which 
leads to profound admiration of the whole works of creation, 
belongs, it may be presumed, to a certain peculiarity of organiza¬ 
tion, and has, no doubt, existed in different individuals from 
the beginning of the world. The old poets and philosophers, 
romance writers and troubadours had all looked upon Nature 
with observing and admiring eyes. They have most of them 
given incidentally charming pictures of spring, of the setting 
sun, of particular spots, and of favorite flowers. 

There are few writers of note, of any country or of any age, 
from whom quotations might not be made in proof of the love 
with which they regarded Nature. And this remark applies 
as much to religious and philosophic writers as to poets,— 
equally to Plato, St. Francois de Sales, Bacon and Fenelon, as 
to Shakspeare, Racine, Calderon, or Burns ; for from no really 
philosophic or religious doctrine can the love of the works of 
Nature be excluded. 

But before the days of Jean Jacques Rousseau, Buff on, and 
Bernardin de St. Pierre, this love of Nature had not been 
expressed in all its intensity. Until their day, it had not been 
written on exclusively. The lovers of Nature were not, till 
then, as they may perhaps since be considered, a sect apart. 
Though perfectly sincere in all the adoration they offered, 
they were less entirely, and certainly less diligently and con¬ 
stantly, her adorers. 

It is the great praise of Bernardin de St. Pierre, that com¬ 
ing immediately after Rousseau and Buffon and being one 
of the most proficient writers of the same school, he was in no 
degree their imitator, but perfectly original and new. He in¬ 
tuitively perceived the immensity of the subject he intended to 





6 MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE. 

explore, and has told us that no day of his life passed without 
his collecting some valuable materials for his writings. In the 
divine works of Nature, he diligently sought to discover her 
laws. It was his early intention not to begin to write until he 
had ceased to observe ; but he found observation endless, and 
that he was “ like a child, who with a shell digs a hole in the 
sand to receive the waters of the ocean.” He elsewhere 
humbly says, that not only the general history of Nature, but 
even that of the smallest plant, was far beyond his ability. 
Before, however, speaking further of him as an author, it will 
be necessary to recapitulate the chief events of his life. 

Henri-Jacques Bernardin de St. Pierre, was born at 
Havre in 1737. He always considered himself descended from 
Eustache de St. Pierre, who is said by Froissart (and I believe 
by Froissart only), to have so generously offered himself as 
a victim to appease the wrath of Edward the Third against 
Calais. He, with his companions in virtue, it is also said, was 
saved by the intercession of Queen Philippa. In one of his 
smaller works, Bernard \ asserts this descent, and it was cer¬ 
tainly one of which h/ might be proud. Many anecdotes are 
related of his childhor », indicative of the youthful author,—of 
his strong love of Na' ire, and his humanity to animals. 

That “ the child is father of the man,” has been seldom 
more strongly illustrated. ^There is a story of a cat, which, 
when related by him many years afterwards to Rousseau, 
caused that philosopher to shed tears. At eight years of age, 
he took the greatest pleasure in the regular culture of his 
garden ; and possibly then stored up some of the ideas which 
afterwards appeared in the “ Fraisier.” His sympathy with all 
living things was extreme. 

In “ Paul and Virginia,” he praises, with evident satisfac¬ 
tion, their meal of milk and eggs, which had not cost any animal 
its life. It has been remarked, and possibly with truth, that 
every tenderly disposed heart, deeply imbued with a love of 
Nature, is at times somewhat Braminical. St. Pierre’s certainly 
was. 

When quite young, he advanced with a clenched fist towards 
a carter who was ill-treating a horse. And when taken for 
the first time, by his father, to Rouen, having the towers of the 
cathedral pointed out to him, he exclaimed, “ My God! how 
high they fly.” Every one present naturally laughed. Ber¬ 
nardin had only noticed the flight of some swallows who had 
bu :i t their nests there. He thus early revealed those instincts 
^ ch afterwards became the guidance of his life : the strength 


MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE. 


7 

of which possibly occasioned his too great indifference to all 
monuments of art. The love of study and of solitude were also 
characteristics of his childhood. His temper is said to have 
been moody, impetuous, and intractable. Whether this faulty 
temper may not have been produced or rendered worse by 
mismanagement, cannot now be ascertained. It undoubtedly 
became afterwards, to St. Pierre, a fruitful source of misfortune 
and of woe. 

The reading of voyages was with him, even in childhood, 
| almost a passion. At twelve years of age, his whole soul was 
occupied by Robinson Crusoe and his island. His romantic 
love of adventure seeming to his parents to announce a predi¬ 
lection in favor of the sea, he was sent by them with one of 
his uncles to Martinique. But St. Pierre had not sufficiently 
practised the virtue of obedience to submit, as was necessary, 
to the discipline of a ship. He was afterwards placed with the 
Jesuits at Caen, with whom he made immense progress in his 
studies. But, it is to be feared, he did not conform too well to 
the regulations of the college, for he conceived, from that time, 
the greatest detestation for places of public education. And 
this aversion he has frequently testified in his writings. While 
devoted to his books of travels, he in turn anticipated being a 
Jesuit, a missionary or a martyr; but his family at length suc¬ 
ceeded in establishing him at Rouen, where he completed his 
studies with brilliant success, in 1757. He soon after obtained 
a commission as an engineer, with a salary of one hundred 
louis. In this capacity he was sent (1760) to Dusseldorf, 
under the command of Count St. Germain. This was a career 
in which he might have acquired both honor and fortune ; but, 
most unhappily for St. Pierre, he looked upon the useful and 
necessary etiquettes of life of as many unworthy prejudices. 
Instead of conforming to them, he sought to trample on them. 
In addition, he evinced some disposition to rebel against his 
commander, and was unsocial with his equals. It is not, there¬ 
fore, to be wondered at, that at this unfortunate period of his 
existence, he made himself enemies; or that, notwithstanding 
his great talents, or the coolness he had exhibited in moments 
of danger, he should have been sent back to France. Unwel¬ 
come, under these circumstances, to his family, he was ill 
received by all. 

It is a lesson yet to be learned, that genius gives no charter 
for the indulgence of error,—a truth yet to be remembered, 
that only a small portion of the world will look with leniency 
on the failings Df the highly gifted ; and, that from themselves, 






8 


MEMOIR OF BERN A RDIJV EE ST. PIERRE. 


the consequences of their own actions can never be averted. It 
is yet, alas ! to be added to the convictions of the ardent in 
mind, that no degree of excellence in science or literature, not 
even the immortality of a name, can exempt its possessor from 
obedience to moral discipline ; or give him happiness, unless 
“ temper’s image ” be stamped on his daily words and actions. 
St. Pierre’s life was sadly embittered by his own conduct. The 
adventurous life he led after his return from Dusseldorf, some 
of the circumstances of which exhibited him in an unfavorable 
light to others, tended, perhaps, to tinge his imagination with 
that wild and tender melancholy so prevalent in his writings. 
A prize in the lottery had just doubled his very slender means 
of existence, when he obtained the appointment of geographical 
engineer, and was sent to Malta. The Knights of the Order 
were at this time expecting to be attacked by the Turks. Hav¬ 
ing already been in the service, it was singular that St. Pierre 
should have had the imprudence to sail without his commission. 
He thus subjected himself to a thousand disagreeables, for the 
officers would not recognize him as one of themselves. The 
effects of their neglect on his mind were tremendous ; his rea¬ 
son for a time seemed almost disturbed by the mortifications 
he suffered. After receiving an insufficient indemnity for the 
expenses of his voyage, St. Pierre returned to France, there to 
endure fresh misfortunes. 

Not being able to obtain any assistance from the ministry 
or his family, he resolved on giving lessons in the mathematics. 
But St. Pierre was less adapted than most others for succeed¬ 
ing in the apparently easy, but really ingenious and difficult, 
art of teaching. When education is better understood, it will 
be more generally acknowledged, that, to impart instruction 
with success, a teacher must possess deeper intelligence 
than is implied by the profoundest skill in any one branch of 
science or of art. All minds, even to the youngest, require, 
while being taught, the utmost compliance and consideration; 
and these qualities can scarcely be properly exercised without 
a true knowledge of the human heart, united to much practical 
patience. St. Pierre, at this period of his life, certainly did not 
possess them. It is probable that Rousseau, when he attempted 
in his youth to give lessons in music, not knowing anything 
whatever of music, was scarcely less fitted for the task" of in¬ 
struction, than St. Pierre with all his mathematical knowledge. 
The pressure of poverty drove him to Holland. He was well 
received at Amsterdam, by a French refugee named Mustel, 
who edited a popular journal there, and who procured him era* 


MEMOIR OF BERNARD IN DE ST. PIERRE . 


9 

ployment, with handsome remuneration. St. Pierre did not, 
however, remain long satisfied with this quiet mode of existence. 
Allured by the encouraging reception given by Catherine II. to 
foreigners, he set out for St. Petersburg. Here, until he ob¬ 
tained the protection of the Marechal de Munich, and the friend¬ 
ship of Duval, he had again to contend with poverty. The 
latter generously opened to him his purse, and by the Marechal 
he was introduced to Villebois, the Grand Master of Artillery, 
and by him presented to the Empress. St. Pierre was so hand¬ 
some, that by some of his friends it was supposed, perhaps, 
too, hoped, that he would supersede Orloff in the favor of Cath¬ 
erine. But more honorable illusions, though they were but il¬ 
lusions, occupied his own mind. He neither sought nor wished 
to captivate the Empress. His ambition was to establish a re¬ 
public on the shores of the lake Aral, of which, in imitation of 
Plato or Rousseau, he was to be the legislator. Pre-occupied 
with the reformation of despotism, he did not sufficiently look 
into his own heart, or seek to avoid a repetition of the same 
errors that had already changed friends into enemies, and been 
such a terrible barrier to his success in life. His mind was al¬ 
ready morbid, and in fancying that others did not understand 
him, he forgot that he did not understand others. The Em¬ 
press, with the rank of captain, bestowed on him a grant of fif¬ 
teen hundred francs; but when General Dubosquet proposed 
to take him with him to examine the military position of Fin¬ 
land, his only anxiety seemed to be to return to France : still 
he went to Finland ; and his own notes of his occupations and 
experiments on that expedition prove, that he gave himself up 
in all diligence to considerations of attack and defence. He, 
who loved Nature so intently, seems only to have seen in the 
extensive and majestic forests of the north, a theatre of war. In 
this instance, he appears to have stifled every emotion of admi¬ 
ration, and to have beheld, alike, cities and countries in his 
character of military surveyor. 

On his return to St. Petersburg, he found his. protector 
Villebois, disgraced. St. Pierre then resolved on espousing the 
cause of the Poles. He went into Poland with a high reputa¬ 
tion,—that of having refused the favors of despotism, to aid the 
cause of liberty. But it was his private life, rather than his 
public career, that was affected by his residence in Poland. 
The Princess Mary fell in love with him, and, forgetful of all 
considerations, quitted her family to reside with him. Yield¬ 
ing, however, at length, to the entreaties of her mother, she re¬ 
turned to her home. St. Pierre, failed with regret, resorted to 


10 


MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE. 


Vienna; but, unable to support the sadness which oppressed 
him, and imagining that sadness to be shared by the Princess, 
he soon went back to Poland. His return was still more sad 
than his departure ; for he found himself regarded by her who 
bad once loved him, as an intruder. It is to this attachment 
he alludes so touchingly in one of his letters. “Adieu ! friends 
dearer than the treasures of India! Adieu! forests of the 
North, that I shall never see again !—tender friendship, and 
the still dearer sentiments which surpassed it!—days of intoxi¬ 
cation and of happiness adieu ! adieu ! We live but for a day, 
to die during a whole life ! ” 

This letter appears to one of St. Pierre’s most partial bio¬ 
graphers, as if steeped in tears ; and he speaks of his romantic 
and unfortunate adventure in Poland, as the ideal of a poet’s 
love. 

“ To be,” says M. Sainte-Beuve, “ a great poet, and loved 
before he had thought of glory 1 To exhale the first perfume 
of a soul of genius, believing himself only a lover! To reveal 
himself, for the first time, entirely, but in mystery! ” 

In his enthusiasm, M. Sainte-Beuve loses sight of the mel¬ 
ancholy sequel, which must have left so sad a remembrance in 
St. Pierre’s own mind. His suffering, from this circum¬ 
stance, may perhaps have conduced to his making Virginia so 
good and true, and so incapable of giving pain. 

In 1766, he returned to Havre; but his relations were by 
this time dead or dispersed, and after six years of exile, he 
found himself once more in his own country, v/ithout employ¬ 
ment and destitute of pecuniary resources. 

The Baron de Breteuil at length obtained for him a com¬ 
mission as Engineer to the Isle of France, whence he returned 
in 1771. In this interval, his heart and imagination doubtless 
received the germs of his immortal works. Many of the events, 
indeed, of the “Voyage a Pile de France,” are to be found 
modified by imagined circumstances in “ Paul and Virginia.” 
He returned to Paris poor in purse, but rich in observation 
and mental resources, and resolved to devote himself to liter¬ 
ature. By the Baron de Breteuil he was recommended to 
D’Alembert, who procured a publisher for his “ Voyage,” and 
also introduced him to Mile, de l’Espinasse. But no one, in 
spite of his great beauty, was so ill calculated to shine or please 
in society as St. Pierre. His manners were timid and embar¬ 
rassed, and, unless to those with whom he was very intimate 
he scarcely appeared intelligent. 

It is sad to think, that misunderstanding should prevail to 


MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE. 


II 


such an extent, and heart so seldom really speak to heart, in 
the intercourse of the world, that the most humane may appear 
cruel, and the sympathizing indifferent. Judging of Mile, de 
l’Espinasse from her letters, and the testimony of her contem¬ 
poraries, it seems quite impossible that she could have given 
pain to any one, more particularly to a man possessing St. 
Pierre’s extraordinary and profound sensibility. Both she and 
D’Alembert were capable of appreciating him; but the society 
in which they moved laughed at his timidity, and the tone of 
raillery in which they often indulged was not understood by 
him. It is certain that he withdrew from their circle with 
wounded and mortified feelings, and, in spite of an expiratory 
letter from D’Alembert, did not return to it. The infketors ol 
all this pain, in the mean time, were possibly as unconscious ol 
the meaning attached to their words, as were the buds of old 
of. the augury drawn from their flight. 

St. Pierre, in his “ Preambule de l’Arcadie,” has patheti¬ 
cally and eloquently described the deplorable state of his health 
and feelings, after frequent humiliating disputes and disappoint¬ 
ments had driven him from society ; or rather, when, like Rous¬ 
seau, he was “ self-banished ” from it. 

“ I was struck,” he says, “ with an extraordinary malady. 
Streams of fire, like lightning, flashed before my eyes ; every 
object appeared to me double, or in motion : like CEdipus, I 
saw two suns. * * In the finest day of summer, I could not 
cross the Seine in a boat without experiencing intolerable anx¬ 
iety. If, in a public garden, I merely passed by a piece of 
water, I suffered from spasms and a feeling of horror. I could 
not cross a garden in which many people were collected : if 
they looked at me, I immediately imagined they were speaking 
ill of me.” It was during this state of suffering that he devoted 
himself with ardor to collecting and making use of materials 
for that work which was to give glory to his name. 

It was only by perseverance, and disregarding many rough 
and discouraging receptions, that he succeeded in making ac¬ 
quaintance with Rousseau, whom he so much resembled. St. 
Pierre devoted himself to his society with enthusiasm, visiting 
him frequently and constantly, till Rousseau departed for Er- 
menonville. It is not unworthy of remark, that both these 
men, such enthusiastic admirers of Nature and the natural in 
all things, should have possessed factitious rather than practi¬ 
cal virtue, and a wisdom wholly unfitted for the world. St. 
Pierre asked Rousseau, in one of their frequent rambles, if in 
delineating St. Preux, he had not intended to represent him- 


12 


MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE. 


self. “ No,” replied Rousseau, “ St. Preux is not what I have 
been, but what I wished to be.” St. Pierre would most likely 
have given the same answer, had a similar question been put 
to him with regard to the Colonel in “ Paul and Virginia.” 
This at least, appears the sort of old age he loved to contem¬ 
plate, and wished to realize. 

For six years, he worked at his “ Etudes,” and with some 
difficulty found a publisher for them. M. Didot, a celebrated 
typographer, whose daughter St. Pierre afterwards married, 
consented to print a manuscript which had been declined by 
many others. He was well rewarded for the undertaking. 
The success of the “ Etudes de la Nature ” surpassed the most 
sanguine expectation, even of the author. Four years after its 
publication, St. Pierre gave to the world “ Paul and Virginia,” 
which had for some time been lying in his portfolio. He had 
tried its effect, in manuscript, on persons of different charac¬ 
ters and pursuits. They had given it no applause ; but all had 
shed tears at its perusal: and perhaps few works of a decidedly 
romantic character have ever been so generally read, or so 
much approved. Among the great names whose admiration of 
it is on record, may be mentioned Napoleon and Humboldt. 

In 1789, he published “Les Voeux d’un Solitaire,” and “La 
Suite des Voeux.” By the Moniteur of the day, these works 
were compared to the celebrated pamphlet of Sieyes, — 
“ Qu’est-ce que le tiers etat ? ” which then absorbed all the 
public favor. In 1791, “La Chaumiere Indienne ” was pub¬ 
lished : and in the following year, about thirteen days before 
the celebrated 10th of August, Louis XVI. appointed St. Pierre 
superintendant of the “ Jardin des Plantes.” Soon afterwards, 
the King, on seeing him, complimented him on his writings, 
and told him he was happy to have found a worthy successor 
to Buffon. 

Although deficient in the exact knowledge of the sciences, 
and knowing little of the world, St. Pierre was, by his simplicity, 
and the retirement in which he lived, well suited, at that epoch, 
to the situation. About this time, and when in his fifty-seventh 
year, he married Mile. Didot. 

In 1795, he became a member of the French Academy, and, 
as was just, after his acceptance of this honor, he wrote no 
more against literary societies. On the suppression of his 
place, he retired to Essonne. It is delightful to follow him 
there, and to contemplate his quiet existence. His days flowed 
on peaceably, occupied in the publication of “ Les Harmonies 
de la Nature,” the republication of his earlier works, and the 


MEMOIR OR BERtfARDW DE ST. PIERRE. 


n 

composition of some lesser pieces. He himself affectingly 
regrets an interruption to these occupations. On being ap¬ 
pointed Instructor to the Normal School, he says, •* I am 
obliged to hang my harp on the willows of my river, and to 
accept an employment useful to my family and my country. I 
am afflicted at having to suspend an occupation which has given 
me so much happiness.” 

He enjoyed in his old age a degree of opulence which, as 
much as glory, had perhaps been the object of his ambition. 
In any case, it is gratifying to reflect, that after a life so full of 
chance and change, he was, in his latter years, surrounded by 
much that should accompany old age. His day of storms and 
tempests was closed by an evening of repose and beauty. 

Amid many other blessings, the elasticity of his mind was 
preserved to the last. He died at Eragny sur l’Oise, on the 
2 ist of January, 1814. The stirring events which then oc¬ 
cupied France, or rather the whole world, caused his death to 
be little noticed at the time. The Academy did not, however, 
neglect to give him the honor due to its members. Mons. 
Parseval Grand Maison pronounced a deserved eulogium on 
his talents, and Mons. Aignan, also, the customary tribute, 
taking his seat as his successor. 

Having himself contracted the habit of confiding his griefs 
and sorrows to the public, the sanctuary of his private life was 
open alike to the discussion of friends and enemies. The biog¬ 
rapher, who wishes to be exact, and yet set down nought in 
malice, is forced to the contemplation of his errors. The 
secret of many of these, as well as of his miseries, seems re¬ 
vealed by himself in this sentence: “ I experience more pain 
from a single thorn, than pleasure from a thousand roses.” 
And elsewhere, “ The best society seems to me bad, if I find 
in it one troublesome, wicked, slanderous, envious, or perfidious 
person.” Now, taking into consideration that St. Pierre some¬ 
times imagined persons who were really good, to be deserving 
of these strong and very contumacious epithets, it would have 
been difficult indeed to find a society in which he could have 
been happy. He was therefore wise in seeking retirement, 
and indulging in solitude. His mistakes,—for they were mis¬ 
takes,—arose from a too quick perception of evil, united to an 
exquisite and diffuse sensibility. When he felt wounded by a 
thorn, he forgot the beauty and perfume of the rose to which 
it belonged, and from which perhaps it could not be separated. 
And he was exposed (as often happens) to the very description 
of trials that were least in harmony with his defects. Few disr 


MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST PIERRE . 


*4 

positions could have run a career like his, and have remained 
unscathed. But one less tender than his own would have been 
less soured by it. For many years, he bore about with him the 
consciousness of unacknowledged talent. The world cannot 
be blamed for not appreciating that which had never been re¬ 
vealed. But we know not what the jostling and elbowing of 
that world, in the mean time, may have been to him—how often 
he may have felt himself unworthily treated—or how far that 
treatment may have preyed upon and corroded his heart. Who 
shall say that with this consciousness there did not mingle a 
quick and instinctive perception of the hidden motives of action, 
—that he did not sometimes detect, where others might have 
been blind, the under-shuffling of the hands, in the by-play of 
the world ? 

Through all his writings, and throughout his correspon¬ 
dence, there are beautiful proofs of the tenderness of his feel¬ 
ings,—the most essential quality, perhaps, in any writer. It is 
at least one that if not possessed, can never be attained. The 
familiarity of his imagination with natural objects, when he 
was living far removed from them, is remarkable, and often 
affecting. 

“ I have arranged,” he says to Mr. Henin, his friend and 
patron, “very interesting materials, but it is only with the light 
of Heaven over me that I can recover my strength. Obtain 
for me a rabbit's hole , in which I may pass the sumraet in the 
country.” And again, “ With the first violet , I shall come to 
see you.” It is soothing to find, in passages like these, such 
pleasing and convincing evidence that 

“ Nature never did betray, 

The heart that loved her.” 

In the noise of. a great city, in the midst of annoyances ot 
many kinds, these images, impressed with quietness and beauty, 
came back to the mind of St. Pierre, to cheer and animate 
him. 

In alluding to his miseries, it is but fair to quote a passage 
from his “Voyage,” which reveals his fond remembrance of his 
native land. “ I should ever prefer my own country to every 
other,” he says, “ not because it was more beautiful, but be¬ 
cause I was brought up in it. Happy he, who sees again the 
places where all was loved, and all was lovely!—the meadows 
in which he played, and the orchard that he robbed! ” 

He returned to this country, so fondly loved and deeply 
cherished in absence, to experience only trouble and difficulty 


MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERE. 


IS 

Away from it, he had yearned to behold it,—to fold it, as it were, 
once more to his bosom. He returned to feel as if neglected 
by it, and all his rapturous emotions were changed to bitterness 
and gall. His hopes had proved delusions—his expectations, 
mockeries. Oh ! who but must look with charity and mercy 
on all discontent and irritation consequent on such a depth 
of disappointment: on what must have then appeared to him 
such unmitigable woe. Under the influence of these saddened 
feelings, his thoughts flew back to the island he had left, to place 
all beauty, as well as all happiness there ! 

One great proof that he did beautify the distant, may be 
found in the contrast of some of the descriptions in the “ Voyage 
a l’lle de France,” and those in “ Paul and Virginia.” That 
spot, which when peopled by the cherished creatures of his 
imagination, he described as an enchanting and delightful Eden, 
he had previously spoken of as a “rugged country covered 
with rocks,”—“ a land of Cyclops blackened by fire.” Truth, 
probably, lies between the two representations; the sadness 
of exile having darkened the one, and the exuberance of his 
imagination embellished the other. 

St. Pierre’s merit as an author has been too long and too 
universally acknowledged, to make it needful that it should be 
dwelt on here. A careful review of the circumstances of his 
life induces the belief, that his writings grew (if it may be per¬ 
mitted so to speak) out of his life. In his most imaginative pas- 
ages, to whatever height his fancy soared, the starting point 
seems ever from a fact. The past appears to have been always 
spread out before him when he wrote, like a beautiful land¬ 
scape, on which his eye rested with complacency, and from 
which his mind transferred and idealized some objects, without 
a servile imitation of any. When at Berlin, he had had 
it in his power to marry Virginia Tabenheim; and in Russia, 
Mile, de la Tour, the neice of General Dubosquet, would have 
accepted his hand. He was too poor to marry either. A 
grateful recollection caused him to bestow the names of the 
two on his most beloved creation. Paul was the name of a 
friar, with whom he had associated in his childhood, and whose 
life he wished to imitate. How little had the owners of these 
names anticipated that they were to become the baptismal ap¬ 
pellations of half a generation in France, and to be re-echoed 
through the world to the end of time ! 

It was St. Pierre who first discovered the poverty of language 
with regard to picturesque descriptions. In his earliest work, 
the often-quoted “Voyage,” he complains that the terms 


MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE. 

for describing nature are not yet invented. “ Endeavor,” he 
says, “ to describe a mountain in such a manner that it may 
be recognized. When you have spoken of its base, its sides, 
its summit, you will have said all! But what variety there is 
to be found in those swelling, lengthened, flattened, or cavern¬ 
ous forms ! It is only by periphrasis that all this can be ex¬ 
pressed. The same difficulty exists for plains and valleys. 
But if you have a palace to describe, there is no longer any 
difficulty. Every moulding has its appropriate name. 

It was St. Pierre’s glory, in some degree, to triumph over 
this dearth of expression. Few authors ever introduced more 
new terms into descriptive writing? yet are his innovations 
ever chastened, and in good taste. His style, in its elegant 
simplicity, is, indeed, perfection. It is at once sonorous and 
sweet, and always in harmony with the sentiment he would 
express, or the subject he would discuss. Chenier might well 
arm himself with “ Paul and Virginia,” and the “ Chaumiera 
Indienne,” in opposition to those writers, who, as he said, 
made prose unnatural, by seeking to elevate it into verse. 

The “ Etudes de la Nature ” embraced a thousand different 
subjects, and contained some new ideas on all. It is to the 
honor of human nature, that after the uptearing of so many sacred 
opinions, a production like this, revealing the chain of connec¬ 
tion through the works of Creation, and the Creator in his 
works, should have been hailed, as it was, with enthusiasm. 

His motto, from his favorite poet Virgil, “ Taught by ca¬ 
lamity, I pity the unhappy,” won for him, perhaps, many 
readers. And in its touching illusions, the unhappy may have 
found suspension from the realities of life, as well as encourage¬ 
ment to support its trials. For, throughout, it infuses admira¬ 
tion of the arrangements of Providence, and a desire for virtue. 
More than one modern poet may be supposed to have drawn a 
portion of his inspiration, from the “ Etudes.” As a work of 
science it contains many errors. These, particularly his theory 
of the tides,* St. Pierre maintained to the last, and so elo¬ 
quently, that it was said at the time, to be impossible to unite 
less reason with more logic. 

In “ Paul and Virginia,” he was supremely fortunate in his 
subject. It was an entirely new creation, uninspired by any 
previous work ; but which gave birth to many others, having 
furnished the plot to six theatrical pieces. It was a subject to 
which the author could bring all his excellences as a writer and 
man, while his deficiencies and defects were necessarily ex- 

• Occasioned, according to St. Pierre, by the mehing of the ico at the Poles. 


MEMOIR OE BERNARDW DE ST PIERRE. 


17 

eluded. In no manner could he incorporate politics, science, 
or misapprehension of persons, while his sensibility, morals, and 
wonderful talent for description, were in perfect accordance 
with, and ornaments to it. Lemontey and Sainte-Beuve both 
consider success to be inseparable from the happy selection of 
a story so entirely in harmony with the character of the author; 
and that the most successful writers might envy him so fortun¬ 
ate a choice. Bonaparte was in the habit of saying, whenever 
he saw St. Pierre, “ M. Bernardin, when do you mean to give 
us more Pauls and Virginias, and Indian Cottages? You ought 
to give us some every six months.” 

The “ Indian Cottage,” if not quite equal in interest to 
il Paul and Virginia,” is still a charming production, and does 
great honor to the genius of its author. It abounds in antique 
and Eastern gems of thought. Striking and excellent compari¬ 
sons are scattered through its pages ; and it is delightful to 
reflect, that the following beautiful and solemn answer of the 
Paria was, with St. Pierre, the result of his own experience :—• 
“ Misfortune resembles the Black Mountain of Bember, situated 
at the extremity of the burning kingdom of Lahore; while you 
are climbing it, you only see before you barren rocks; but 
when you have reached its summit, you see heaven above 
your head, and at your feet the kingdom of Cachemere.” 

When this passage was written, the rugged and sterile rock 
had been climbed by its gifted author. He had reached the 
summit,—his genius had been rewarded, and he himself saw the 
heaven he wished to point out to others, Sarah Jones. 


*** For the facts contained in this brief Memoir, I am indebted to St. Pierre’s own 
works, to the “ Biographie Universelle,” to the “ Essai sur la Vie et les Ouvrages de Ber¬ 
nardin de St. Pierre,” by M. Aime Martin, and to the very excellent and interesting 
“ Notice Historique et Litteraire,” of M* Sainte-Beuve, 




PAUL AND VIRGINIA 


Situate on the eastern side of the mountain which rises 
above Port Louis, in the Mauritius, upon a piece of land bear¬ 
ing the marks of former cultivation, are seen the ruins of two 
small cottages. These ruins are not far from the centre of a 
valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens only to¬ 
wards the north. On the left rises the mountain called the 
Height of Discovery, whence the eye marks the distant sail 
when it first touches the verge of the horizon, and whence the 
signal is given when a vessel approaches the island. At the 
foot of this mountain stands the town of Port Louis. On the 
right is formed the road which stretches from Port Louis to the 
Shaddock Grove, where the church bearing that name lifts its 
head, surrounded by its avenues of bamboo, in the middle of a 
spacious plain ; and the prospect terminates in a forest extend¬ 
ing to the furthest bounds of the island. The front view pre¬ 
sents the bay, denominated the Bay of the Tomb ; a little on 
the right is seen the Cape of Misfortune; and beyond rolls the 
expanded ocean, on the surface of which appear a few unin¬ 
habited islands; and, among others, the Point of Endeavor, 
which resembles a bastion built upon the flood. 

At the entrance of the valley which presents these various 
objects, the echoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hol¬ 
low murmurs of the winds that shake the neighboring forests, 
and the tumultuous dashing of the waves which break at a dis¬ 
tance upon the cliffs ; but near the ruined cottages all is calm 
and still, and the only objects which there meet the eye are 
rude steep rocks/that rise like a surrounding rampart. Large 
clumps of trees grow at their base, on their rifted sides, and 
even on their majestic tops, where the clouds seem to repose. 
The showers, which their bold points attract, often paint the 
vivid colors of the rainbow on their green and brown declivi¬ 
ties, and swell the sources of the little river which flows at their 



PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


QO 

feet, called the river of Fan-Palms. Within this jnctosufQ 
reigns the most profound silence. The waters, the air, all the 
elements are at peace. Scarcely does the echo repeat the 
whispers of the palm-trees, spreading their broad leaves, the 
long points of which are gently agitated by the winds. A soft 
light illumines the bottom of this deep valley, on which the sun 
shines only at noon. But, even at break of day, the. rays of 
light are thrown on the surrounding rocks; and their sharp 
peaks, rising above the shadows of the mountain, appear like 
tints of gold and purple gleaming upon the azure sky. 

To this scene I loved to resort, as I could here enjoy at 
once the richness of an unbounded landscape, and the charm 
of uninterrupted solitude. One day, when I was seated at the 
foot of the cottages, and contemplating their ruins, a man, ad¬ 
vanced in years, passed near the spot. He was dressed in the 
ancient garb of the island, his feet were bare, and he leaned 
upon a staff of ebony: his hair was white, and the expression 
of his countenance was dignified and interesting. I bowed to 
him With respect; he returned the salutation ; and, after look¬ 
ing at me with some earnestness, came and placed himself 
upon the hillock on which I was seated. Encouraged by this 
mark of confidence I thus addressed him : “ Father, can you 
tell me to whom those cottages once belonged ? ”—“ My son,” 
replied the old man, “ those heaps of rubbish, and that untilled 
land, were, twenty years ago, the property of two families, who 
then found happiness in this solitude. Their history is affect¬ 
ing ; but what European, pursuing his way to the Indies, will 
pause one moment to interest himself in the fate of a few 
obscure individuals ? What European can picture happiness 
to his imagination amidst poverty and neglect ? The curiosity 
of mankind is only attracted by the history of the great, and 
yet from that knowledge little use can be derived.”—“ Father,” 
I rejoined, “from your manner and your observations, I per¬ 
ceive that you have acquired much experience of human life. 
If you have leisure, relate to me, I beseech you, the history of 
the ancient inhabitants of this desert; and be assured, that 
even the men who are most perverted by the prejudices of the 
world, find a soothing pleasure in contemplatihg that happiness 
which belongs to simplicity and virtue.” The old man, after a 
short silence, during which he leaned his face upon his hands, 
as if he were trying to recall the images of the past, thus began 
his narration :— 

Monsieur de la Tour, a young man who was a native of Nor¬ 
mandy, after having in vain solicited a commission in the French 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


21 


army, or some support from his own family, at length deter¬ 
mined to seek his fortune in this island, where he arrived in 
1726. He brought hither a young woman, whom he loved ten¬ 
derly, and by whom he was no less tenderly beloved. She 
belonged to a rich and ancient family of the same province: 
but he had married her secretly and without fortune, and in 
opposition to the will of her relations, who refused their con¬ 
sent because he was found guilty of being descended from 
parents who had no claims to nobility. Monsieur de la Tour, 
leaving his wife at Port Louis, embarked for Madagascar, in 
order to purchase a few slaves, to assist him in forming a 
plantation on this island. He landed at Madagascar during 
that unhealthy season which commences about the middle of 
October; and soon after his arrival died of the pestilential 
fever, which prevails in that island six months of the year, and 
which will forever baffle the attempts of the European nations 
to. form establishments on that fatal soil. His effects were 
seized upon by the rapacity of strangers, as commonly happens 
to persons dying in foreign parts; and his wife, who was preg¬ 
nant, found herself a widow in a country where she had neither 
credit nor acquaintance, and no earthly possession, or rather 
support, but one negro woman. Too delicate to solicit protec¬ 
tion or relief from any one else after the death of him whom 
alone she loved, misfortune armed her with courage, and she 
resolved to cultivate, with her slave, a little spot of ground, 
and procure for herself the means of subsistence. 

Desert as was the island, and the ground left to the choice 
of the settler, she avoided those spots which were most fertile 
and most favorable to commerce : seeking some nook of the 
mountain, some secret asylum where she might live solitary 
and unknown, she bent her way from the town towards these 
rocks, where she might conceal herself from observation. All 
sensitive and suffering creatures, from a sort of common in¬ 
stinct, fly for refuge amidst their pains to haunts the most wild 
and desolate; as if rocks could form a rampart against mis¬ 
fortune—as if the calm of Nature could hush the tumults of the 
soul. That Providence, which lends its support when we ask 
but the supply of our necessary wants, had a blessing in reserve 
for Madame de la Tour, which neither riches nor greatness can 
purchase :—this blessing was a friend. 

The spot to which Madame de la Tour had fled had already 
been inhabited for a year by a young woman of a lively, good- 
natured and affectionate disposition. Margaret (for that was 
her nq.me) wa? born in Brittany, of a family of peasants, by 


22 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


whom she was cherished and beloved, and with whom she 
might have passed through life in simple rustic happiness, if, 
mislead by the weakness of a tender heart, she had not listened 
to the passion of a gentleman in the neighborhood, who promised 
her marriage. He soon abandoned her, and adding inhumanity 
to seduction, refused to insure a provision for the child of which 
she was pregnant. Margaret then determined to leave forever 
her native village, and retire, where her fault might be con¬ 
cealed, to some colony distant from that country where she 
had lost the only portion of a poor peasant girl—her reputa¬ 
tion. With some borrowed money she purchased an old negro 
slave, with whom she cultivated a little corner of this district. 

Madame de la Tour, followed by her negro woman, came to 
this spot, where she found Margaret engaged in suckling her 
child. Soothed and charmed by the sight of a person in a sit¬ 
uation somewhat similar to her own, Madame de la Tour rela¬ 
ted, in a few words, her past condition and her present wants. 
Margaret was deeply affected by the recital; and more anxious 
to merit confidence than to create esteem, she confessed with¬ 
out disguise, the errors of which she had been guilty. “As for 
me,” said she, “ I deserve my fate : but you, madam—you! 
at once virtuous and unhappy”—and, sobbing, she offered 
Madame de la Tour both her hut ancl her friendship. That 
lady, affected by this tender reception, pressed her in her arms, 
and exclaimed,—“Ah, surely Heaven has put an end to my 
misfortunes, since it inspires you, to whom I am a stranger, 
with more goodness towards me than I have ever experienced 
from my own relations! ” 

I was acquainted with Margaret: and, although my habita¬ 
tion is a league and a half from hence, in the woods behind that 
sloping mountain, I considered myself as her neighbor. In the 
cities of Europe, a street, even a simple wall, frequently pre¬ 
vents members of the same family from meeting for years ; but 
in new colonies we consider those persons as neighbors from 
whom we are divided only by woods and mountains ; and above 
all at that period, when this island had little intercourse with 
the Indies, vicinity alone gave a claim to friendship, and hospi¬ 
tality towards strangers seemed less a duty than a pleasure. 
No sooner was I informed that Margaret had found a compan¬ 
ion, than I hastened to her, in the hope of being useful to my 
neighbor and her guest. I found Madame de la Tour possessed 
of all those melancholy graces which, by blending sympathy 
with admiration gave to beauty additional power. Her coun¬ 
tenance was interesting, expressive at once of dignity and de- 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


23 

Jection. She appeared to be in the last stage of her pregnancy. 
I told the two friends that for the future interest of their children, 
and to prevent the intrusion of any other settler, they had better 
divide between them the property of this wild, sequestered val¬ 
ley, which is nearly twenty acres in extent. They confided that 
task to me, and I marked out two equal portions of land. One 
included the higher part of this inclosure, from the cloudy pin¬ 
nacle of that rock, whence springs the river of Fan-Palms, to 
that precipitous cleft which you see on the summit of the moun¬ 
tain, and which, from its resemblance in form to the battlement 
of a fortress, is called the Embrasure. It is difficult to find a 
path along this wild portion of the enclosure, the soil of which 
is encumbered with fragments of rock, or worn into channels 
formed by torrents ; yet it produces noble trees, and innumer¬ 
able springs and rivulets. The other portion of land comprised 
the plain extending along the banks of the river of Fan-Palms, 
to the opening where we are now seated, whence the river 
takes its course between those two hills, until it falls into the 
sea. You may still trace the vestiges of some meadow land ; 
and this part of the common is less rugged, but not more valu¬ 
able than the other; since in the rainy season it becomes 
marshy, and in dry weather is so hard and unyielding, that it 
will almost resist the stroke of a pickaxe. When I had thus 
divided the property, I persuaded my neighbors to draw lots 
for their respective possessions. The higher portion of land, 
containing the source of the river of Fan-Palms, became the 
property of Madame de la Tour; the lower, comprising the 
plain on the banks of the river, was allotted to Margaret; and 
each seemed satisfied with her share. They entreated me to 
place their habitations together, that they might at all times en¬ 
joy the soothing intercourse of friendship, and the consolation 
of mutual kind offices. Margaret’s cottage was situated near 
the centre of the valley, and just on the boundary of her own 
plantation. Close to that spot I built another cottage for the 
residence of Madame de la Tour; and thus the two friends, 
while they possessed all the advantages of neighborhood, lived 
on their own property. I myself cut palisades from the moun¬ 
tain, and brought leaves of fan-palms from the sea-shore in or¬ 
der to construct those two cottages, of which you can now 
discern neither the entrance nor the roof. Yet, alas! there 
still remain but too many traces for my remembrance ! Time, 
which so rapidly destroys the proud monuments of empires, 
seems in this desert to spare those of friendship, as if to perpet¬ 
uate my regrets to the last hour of my existence. 


vAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


*\ 

As soon as the second cottage was finished, Madame de 
la Tour was delivered of a girl. I had been the godfather of 
Margaret’s child, who was christened by the name of Paul. 
Madame de la Tour desired me to perform the same office for 
her child also, together with her friend, who gave her the name 
of Virginia. “ She will be virtuous,” cried Margaret, “ and 
she will be happy. I have only known misfortune by wandering 
from virtue.” 

About the time Madame de la Tour recovered, these two 
little estates had already begun to yield some produce, perhaps 
in a small degree owing to the care which I occasionally bestowed 
on their improvement, but far more to the indefatigable labors 
of the two slaves. Margaret’s slave, who was called Domingo, 
was still healthy and robust, though advanced in years : he 
possessed some knowledge, and a good natural understanding. 
He cultivated indiscriminately, on both plantations, the spots 
of ground that seemed most fertile, and sowed whatever grain 
he thought most congenial to each particular soil. Where the 
ground was poor, he strewed maize ; where it was most fruitful, 
he planted wheat; and rice in such spots as were marshy. He 
threw the seeds of gourds and cucumbers at the foot of the 
rocks, which they loved to climb and decorate with their luxuri¬ 
ant foliage. In dry spots he cultivated the sweet potato ; the 
cotton-tree flourished upon the heights, and the sugar-cane grew 
in the clayey soil. He reared some plants of coffee on the 
hills, where the grain, although small, is excellent. His plan¬ 
tain-trees, which spread their grateful shade on the banks of 
the river, and encircled the cottages, yielded fruit throughout the 
year. And lastly, Domingo, to soothe his cares, cultivated a 
few plants of tobacco. Sometimes he was employed in cutting 
wood for firing from the mountain, sometimes in hewing pieces 
of rock within the enclosure, in order to level the paths. The 
zeal which inspired him enabled him to perform all these labors 
with intelligence and activity. He was much attached to Mar¬ 
garet, and not less to Madame de la Tour, whose negro woman, 
Mary, he had married on the birth of Virginia; and he was 
passionately fond of his wife. Mary was born at Madagascar, 
and had there acquired the knowledge of some useful arts. 
She could weave baskets, and a sort of stuff, with long grass 
that grows in the woods. She was active, cleanly, and, above 
all, faithful. It was her care to prepare their meals, to rear the 
poultry, and go sometimes to Port Louis, to sell the superfluous 
produce of these little plantations, which was not, however, 
Very considerable. If you add -o the personages already men- 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


25 

tioned two goats, which were brought up with the children, and a 
great dog, which kept watch at night, you will have a complete 
idea of the household, as well as of the productions of these two 
little farms. 

Madame de la Tour and her friend were constantly em¬ 
ployed in spinning cotton for the use of their families. Desti¬ 
tute of everything which their own industry could not supply, 
at home they went barefooted : shoes were a convenience re¬ 
served for Sunday, on which day, at an early hour, they attended 
mass at the church of the Shaddock Grove, which you see 
yonder. That church was more distant from their homes than 
Port Louis; but they seldom visited the town, lest they should 
be treated with contempt on account of their dress, which con¬ 
sisted simply of the coarse blue linen of Bengal, usually worn by 
slaves. But is there, in that external deference which fortune 
commands, a compensation for domestic happiness ? If these 
interesting women had something to suffer from the world, 
their homes on that very account became more dear to them. 
No sooner did Mary and Domingo, from this elevated spot, 
perceive their mistresses on the road of the Shaddock Grove, 
than they flew to the foot of the mountain in order to help them 
to ascend. They discerned in the looks of their domestics the 
joy which their return excited. They found in their retreat 
neatness, independence, all the blessings which are the recom¬ 
pense of toil, and they reoeived the zealous services which 
spring from affection. United by the tie of similar wants, and 
the sympathy of similar misfortunes, they gave each other the 
tender names of companion, friend, sister. They had but one 
will, one interest, one table. All their possessions were in com¬ 
mon. And if sometimes a passion more ardent than friendship 
awakened in their hearts the pang of unavailing anguish, a pure 
religion, united with chaste manners, drew their affections 
towards another life: as the trembling flame rises towards 
heaven, when it no longer finds any aliment on earth. 

The duties of maternity became a source of additional hap¬ 
piness to these affectionate mothers, whose mutual friendship 
gained new strength at the sight of their children, equally the off¬ 
spring of an ill-fated attachment. They delighted in washing 
their infants together in the same bath, in putting them to rest 
in the same cradle, and in changing the maternal bosom at 
which they received nourishment. “ My friend,” cried Madame 
de la Tour, “ we shall each of us have two children, and each 
of our children will have two mothers.” As two buds which 
remain on different trees of the same kind, after the tempest 


PAUL AND r/RGINTA* 


2 6 

has broken all their branches, produce more delicious fruit, if 
each, separated from the maternal stem, be grafted on the neigh¬ 
boring tree, so these two infants, deprived of all their other re¬ 
lations, when thus exchanged for nourishment by those who had 
given them birth, imbibed feelings of affection still more tender 
than those of son and daughter, brother and sister. While 
they were yet in their cradles, their mothers talked of their 
marriage. They soothed their own cares by looking forward 
to the future happiness of their children ; but this contempla¬ 
tion often drew forth their tears. The misfortunes of one 
mother had arisen from having neglected marriage ; those of 
the other for having submitted to its laws. One had suffered 
by aiming to rise above her condition, the other by descending 
from her rank. But they found consolation in reflecting that 
their more fortunate children, far from the cruel prejudices of 
Europe, would enjoy at once the pleasures of love and the bless¬ 
ings of equality. 

Rarely, indeed, has such an attachment been seen as that 
which the two children already testified for each other. If Paul 
complained of anything, his mother pointed to Virginia : at her 
sight he smiled, and was appeased. If any accident befell 
Virginia, the cries of Paul gave notice of the disaster ; but the 
dear little creature would suppress her complaints if she found 
that he was unhappy. When I came hither, I usually found 
them quite naked, as is the custom of the country, tottering in 
their walk, and holding each other by the hands and under the 
arms, as we see represented the constellation of the Twins. 
At night these infants often refused to be separated, and were 
found lying in the same cradle, their cheeks, their bosoms 
pressed close together, their hands thrown round each other’s 
neck, and sleeping, locked in one another’s arms. 

When they began to speak, the first name they learned to 
give each other were those of brother and sister, and childhood 
knows no softer appellation. Their education, by directing 
them ever to consider each other's wants, tended greatly to in¬ 
crease their affection. In a short time, all the household 
economy, the care of preparing their rural repasts, became the 
task of Virginia, whose labors were always crowned with the 
praises and kisses of her brother. As for Paul, always in mo¬ 
tion, he dug the garden with Domingo, or followed him with a 
little hatchet into the woods ; and if in his rambles he espied 
a beautiful flower, any delicious fruit, or a nest of birds, even 
at the top of the tree, he would climb up and bring the spoil to 
his sister. When you met one of these children, you might be 
sure the other was not far off. 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


27 

One day as I was coming down that mountain, I saw Vir¬ 
ginia at the end of the garden running towards the house with 
her petticoat thrown over her head, in order to screen herself 
from 'a shower of rain. At a distance, I thought she was alone; 
but as I hastened towards her in order to help her on, I per¬ 
ceived she held Paul by the arm, almost entirely enveloped in 
the same canopy, and both were laughing heartily at their be¬ 
ing sheltered together under an umbrella of their own invention. 
Those two charming faces in the middle of a swelling petticoat, 
recalled to my mind the children of Leda, enclosed in the same 
shell. 

Their sole study was how they could please and assist one 
another ; for of all other things they were ignorant, and indeed 
could neither read nor write. They were never disturbed by in¬ 
quiries about past times, nor did their curiosity extend beyond 
the bounds of their mountain. They believed the world ended 
at the shores of their own island, and all their ideas and all 
their affections were confined within its limits. Their mutual 
tenderness, and that of their mothers, employed all the ener¬ 
gies of their minds. Their tears had never been called forth 
by tedious application to useless sciences. Their minds had 
never been wearied by lessons of morality, superfluous to bosoms 
unconscious of ill. They had never been taught not to steal, 
because everything with them was in common : or not to be 
intemperate, because their simple food was left to their own 
discretion ; or not to lie, because they had nothing to conceal. 
Their young imaginations had never been terrified by the idea 
that God has punishment in store for ungrateful children, since 
with them, filial affection arose naturally from maternal tender¬ 
ness. All they had been taught of religion was to love it, and 
if they did not offer up long prayers in the church, wherever 
they were, in the house, in the fields, in the woods, they raised 
towards heaven their innocent hands, and hearts purified by 
virtuous affections. 

All their early childhood passed thus, like a beautiful dawn, 
the prelude of a bright day. Already they assisted their 
mothers in the duties of the household. As soon as the crow¬ 
ing of the wakeful cock announced the first beam of the morn¬ 
ing, Virginia arose, and hastened to draw water from a neigh¬ 
boring spring: then returning to the house she prepared the 
breakfast. When the rising sun gilded the points of the rocks 
which overhang the enclosure in which they lived, Margaret 
^nd her chiid repaired to the dwelling of Madame de la Tour, 
where they offered up their morning prayer together. This 


23 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


sacrifice of thanksgiving always preceded their first repast, 
which they often took before the door of the cottage, seated 
upon the grass, under a canopy of plantain: and while the 
branches of that delicious tree afforded a grateful shade, its 
fruit furnished a substantial food ready prepared for them by 
nature, and its long glossy leaves, spread upon the table, sup¬ 
plied the place of linen. Plentiful and wholesome nourishment 
gave early growth and vigor to the persons of these children, 
and their countenances expressed the purity and peace of their 
souls. At twelve years of age the figure of Virginia was in some 
degree formed ; a profusion of light hair shaded her face, to 
which her blue eyes and coral lips gave the most charming bril¬ 
liancy. Her eyes sparkled with vivacity when she spoke; but 
when she was silent they were habitually turned upwards with an 
expression of extreme sensibility, or rather of tender melancholy. 
The figure of Paul began already to display the graces of youth¬ 
ful beauty. He was taller than Virginia : his skin was a darker 
tint; his nose more aquiline ; and his black eyes would have 
been too piercing, if the long eyelashes by which they were 
shaded, had not imparted to them an expression of softness. 
He was constantly in motion, except when his sister appeared, 
and then, seated by her side, he became still. Their meals 
often passed without a word being spoken ; and from their 
silence, the simple elegance of their attitudes, and the beauty 
of their naked feet, you might have fancied you beheld an an¬ 
tique group of white marble, representing some of the children 
of Niobe, but for the glances of their eyes, which were con¬ 
stantly seeking to meet, and their mutual soft and tender smiles, 
which suggested rather the idea of happy celestial spirits, whose 
nature is love, and who are not obliged to have recourse to 
words for the expression of their feelings. 

In the mean time Madame de la Tour, perceiving every day 
some unfolding grace, some new beauty, in her daughter, felt 
her maternal anxiety increase with her tenderness. She often 
said to me, “ If I were to die, what will become of Virginia 
without fortune ? ” 

Madame de la Tour had an aunt in France, who was a woman 
of quality, rich, old, and a complete devotee. She had be¬ 
haved with so much cruelty towards her niece upon her marriage, 
that Madame de la Tour had determined no extremity of dis¬ 
tress should, ever compel her to have recourse to her hard¬ 
hearted relation. But when she became a mother, the pride of 
resentment was overcome by the stronger feelings of maternal 
tenderness, She wrote to her aunt, informing her of the sudden 


PAUL A ism VIRGINIA. 


29 

death of her husband, and the birth of her daughter, and the 
difficulties in which she was involved, burdened as she was with 
an infant, and without means of support. She received no 
answer ; but notwithstanding the high spirit natural to her char¬ 
acter, she no longer feared exposing herself to mortification ; 
and, although she knew her aunt would never pardon her for 
having married a man who was not of noble birth, however 
estimable, she continued to write to her, with the hope of 
awakening her compassion for Virginia. Many years, however, 
passed without receiving any token of her remembrance. 

At length, in 1738, three years after the arrival of Monsieur 
de la Bourdonnais in this island, Madame de la Tour was in¬ 
formed that the Governor had a letter to give her from her 
aunt. She flew to Port Louis ; maternal joy raised her mind 
above all trifling considerations, and she was careless on this 
occasion of appearing in her homely attire. Monsieur de la 
Bourdonnais gave her a letter from her aunt, in which she in¬ 
formed her, that she deserved her fate for marrying an adven¬ 
turer and a libertine : that the passions brought with them their 
own punishment; that the premature death of her husband was 
a just visitation from Heaven ; that she had done well in going 
to a distant island, rather than dishonor her family by remain¬ 
ing in France; and that, after all, in the colony where she had 
taken refuge, none but the idle failed to grow rich. Having 
thus censured her niece, she concluded by eulogizing herself. 
To avoid, she said, the almost inevitable evils of marriage, she 
had determined to remain single. In fact, as she was of a very 
ambitious disposition, she had resolved to marry none but a 
man of high rank ; but although she was very rich, her fortune 
was not found a sufficient bribe, even at court, to counterbalance 
the malignant dispositions of her mind, and the disagreeable 
qualities of her person. 

After mature deliberations, she added, in a postscript, that 
she had strongly recommended her niece to Monsieur de la 
Bourdonnais. This she had indeed done, but in a manner of 
late too common, which renders a patron perhaps even more to 
be feared than a declared enemy ; for, in order to justify herself 
for her harshness, she had cruelly slandered her niece, while 
she affected to pity her misfortunes. 

Madame de la Tour, whom no unprejudiced person could 
have seen without feelings of sympathy and respect, was re¬ 
ceived with the utmost coolness by Monsieur de la Bourdonnais, 
biased as he was against her. When she painted to him her 
own situation and that of her child, he replied in abrupt sen- 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


3 ° 

tences,—“We will see what can be done—there are so many to 
relieve—all in good time—why did you displease your aunt ?—• 
you have been much to blame.” 

Madame de la Tour returned to her cottage, her heart torn 
with grief, and filled with all the bitterness of disappointment. 
When she arrived she threw her aunt’s letter on the table, and 
exclaimed to her friend, “ There is the fruit of eleven years of 
patient expectation ! ” Madame de la Tour being the only 
person in the little circle who could read, she again took up 
the letter, and read it aloud. Scarcely had she finished, when 
Margaret exclaimed, “What have we to do with your relations? 
Has God then forsaken us ? He only is our father ! Have 
we not hitherto been happy? Why then this regret? You 
have no courage.” Seeing Madame de la Tour in tears, she 
threw herself upon her neck, and pressing her in her arms,— 
“ My dear friend ! ” cried she, “ my dear friend ! ”—but her 
emotion choked her utterance. At this sight Virginia burst 
into tears, and pressed her mother’s and Margaret’s hand alter¬ 
nately to her lips and heart; while Paul, his eyes inflamed with 
anger, cried, clasping his hands together, and stamping with 
his foot, not knowing whom to blame for this scene of misery. 
The noise soon brought Domingo and Mary to the spot, and 
the little habitation resounded with cries of distress,—“ Ah, 
madam!—My good mistress! — My dear mother! — Do not 
weep ! ” These tender proofs of affection at length dispelled 
the grief of Madame de la Tour. She took Paul and Virginia 
in her arms, and, embracing them, said, “You are the cause of 
my affliction, my children, but you are also my only source of 
delight! Yes, my dear children, misfortune has reached me, 
but only from a distance: here I am surrounded with happi¬ 
ness.” Paul and Virginia did not understand this reflection ; 
but when they saw that she was calm, they smiled, and continued 
to caress her. Tranquillity was thus restored in this happy 
family, and all that had passed was but as a storm in the midst 
of fine weather, which disturbs the serenity of the atmosphere 
but for a short time, and then passes away. 

The amiable disposition of these children unfolded itself 
daily. One Sunday, at daybreak, their mothers having gone 
to mass at the church of the Shaddock Grove, the children per¬ 
ceived a negro woman beneath the plantains which surrounded 
their habitation. She appeared almost wasted to a skeleton, 
and had no other garment than a piece of coarse cloth thrown 
around her. She threw herself at the feet of Virginia, who was 
preparing the family breakfast, and said, “ My good young lady, 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


31 

have pity on a poor runaway slave. For a whole month I have 
wandered among these mountains, half dead with hunger, and 
often pursued by the hunters and their dogs. I fled from my 
master, a rich planter of the Black River, who has used me as 
you see;” and she showed her body marked with scars from 
the lashes she had received. She added, “ I was going to 
drown myself, but hearing you lived here, I said to myself, 
Since there are still some good white people in this country, I 
need not die yet.” Virginia answered with emotion,—“ Take 
courage, unfortunate creature ! here is something to eat; ” and 
she gave her the breakfast she had been preparing, which the 
slave in a few minutes devoured. Wllen her hunger was ap¬ 
peased, Virginia said to her,—“ Poor woman ! I should like 
to go and ask forgiveness for you of your master. Surely the 
sight of you will touch him with pity. Will you show me the 
way ? ”—“ Angel of heaven ! ” answered the poor negro woman, 
“ I will follow you where you please ! ” Virginia called her 
brother, and begged him to accompany her. The slave led the 
way, by winding and difficult paths, through the woods, over 
mountains, which they climbed with difficulty, and across rivers, 
through which they were obliged to wade. At length, about 
the middle of the day, they reached the foot of a steep descent 
upon the borders of the Black River. There they perceived a 
well-built house, surrounded by extensive plantations, and a 
number of slaves employed in their various labors. Their 
master was walking among them with a pipe in his mouth, and 
a switch in his hand. He was a tall thin man, of a brown com¬ 
plexion ; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his dark eyebrows 
were joined in one. Virginia, holding Paul by the hand, drew 
near, and with much emotion begged him, for the love of God, 
to pardon his poor slave, who stood trembling a few paces be¬ 
hind. The planter at first paid little attention to the children, 
who, he saw, were meanly dressed. But when he observed the 
elegance of Virginia’s form, and the profusion of her beautiful 
light tresses which had escaped from beneath her blue cap ; 
when he heard the soft tone of her voice, which trembled, as 
Avell as her whole frame, while she implored his compassion; 
he took his pipe from his mouth, and lifting up his stick, swore, 
with a terrible oath, that he pardoned his slave, not for the 
love of Heaven, but of her who asked his forgiveness. Vir¬ 
ginia made a sign to the slave to approach her master; and 
instantly sprang away followed by Paul. 

They climbed up the steep they had descended ; and naving 
gained the summit, seated themselves at the foot of a tree, 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


3 * 

overcome with fatigue, hunger and thirst. They had left thelf 
home fasting, and walked five leagues since sunrise. Paul said 
to Virginia,—“ My dear sister, it is past noon, and I am sure 
you are thirsty and hungry : we shall find no dinner here ; let 
us go down the mountain again, and ask the master of the poor 
slave for some food.” — “ Oh, no,” answered Virginia, “ he 
frightens me too much. Remember what mamma sometimes 
says, * The bread of the wicked is like stones in the mouth.’ ” 
•—-“What shall we do then,” said Paul; “ these trees produce 
no fruit fit to eat; and I shall not be able to find even a tama¬ 
rind or a lemon to refresh you.”—“ God will take care of us,” 
replied Virginia; “heiistens to the cry even of the little birds 
when they ask him for food.” Scarcely had she pronounced 
these words when they heard the noise of water falling from a 
neighboring rock. They ran thither, and having quenched their 
thirst at this crystal spring, they gathered and ate a few cresses 
which grew on the border of the stream. Soon afterwards, 
while they were wandering backwards and forwards in search 
of more solid nourishment, Virginia perceived in the thickest 
part of the forest, a young palm-tree. The kind of cabbage 
which is found at the top of the palm, enfolded within its leaves, 
is well adapted for food ; but, although the stock of the tree is 
not thicker than a man’s leg, it grows to above sixty feet in 
height. The wood of the tree, indeed, is composed only of 
very fine filaments ; but the bark is so hard that it turns the 
edge of the hatchet, and Paul was not furnished even with 
a knife. At length he thought of setting fire to the palm-tree ; 
but a new difficulty occurred : he had no steel with which to 
strike fire ; and although the whole island is covered with rocks, 
I do not believe it is possible to find a single flint. Necessity, 
however, is fertile in expedients, and the most useful inven¬ 
tions have arisen from mer placed in the most destitute situa¬ 
tions. Paul determined to kindle a fire after the manner of the 
negroes. With the sharp end of a stone he made a small hole 
in the branch of a tree that was quite dry, and which he held 
between his feet: he then, with the edge of the same stone, 
brought to a point another dry branch of a different sort of 
wood, and, afterwards, placing the piece of pointed wood in 
the small hole of the branch which he held with his feet and 
turning it rapidly between his hands, in a few minutes smoke 
and sparks of fire issued from the point of contact. Paul then 
heaped together dried grass and branches, and set fire to the 
foot of the palm-tree, which soon fell to the ground with a tre¬ 
mendous crash. The fire was further useful to him in strip- 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA 


33 

ping off the long, thick, and pointed leaves, within which the 
cabbage was inclosed. Having thus succeeded in obtaining 
this fruit, they ate part of it raw, and part dressed upon the 
ashes, which they found equally palatable. They made this 
frugal repast with delight, from the remembrance of the be¬ 
nevolent action they had performed in the morning: yet their 
joy was embittered by the thoughts of the uneasiness which 
their long absence from home would occasion their mothers. 
Virginia often recurred to this subject; but Paul, who felt his 
strength renewed by their meal, assured her, that it would not 
be long before they reached home, and, by the assurance of 
their safety, tranquillized the minds of their parents. 

After dinner they were much embarrassed by the recollec¬ 
tion that they had now no guide, and that they were ignorant 
of the way. Paul, whose spirit was not subdued by difficulties, 
said to Virginia,—“ The sun shines full upon our huts at noon : 
we must pass, as we did this morning, over that mountain with 
its three points, which you see yonder. Come, let us be mov¬ 
ing.” This mountain was that of the Three Breasts, so called 
from the form of its three peaks. They then descended the 
steep bank of the Black River, on the northern side; and ar¬ 
rived, after an hour’s walk, on the banks of a large river, which 
stopped their further progress. This large portion of the island, 
covered as it is with forests, is even now so little known that 
many of its rivers and mountains have not yet received a name. 
The stream, on the banks of which Paul and Virginia were now 
standing, rolls foaming over a bed of rocks. The noise of the 
water frightened Virginia, and she was afraid to wade through 
the current: Paul therefore took her up in his arms, and went 
thus loaded over the slippery rocks, which formed the bed of 
the river, careless of the tumultuous noise of its waters. “ Do 
not be afraid,” cried he to Virginia ; “ I feel very strong with 
you. If that planter at the Black River had refused you the 
pardon of his slave, I would have fought with him.”—“ What I ” 
answered Virginia, “with that great wicked man? To what 
have I exposed you ! Gracious heaven ! how difficult it is to 
do good ! and yet it is so easy to do wrong.” 

When Paul had crossed the river, he wished to continue the 
journey carrying his sister: and he flattered himself that he 
could ascend in that way the mountain of the Three Breasts, 
which was still at the distance of half a league ; but his strength 
soon failed, and he was obliged to set down his burden, and 
to rest himself by her side. Virginia then ^aid to him, “ My 
dear brother, the sun is going down . you* have still sorau 


PAUL AND VTRGINTA. 


3 * 

strength left, but mine has quite failed : do leave me here, and 
return home alone to ease the fears of our mothers.”—“ Oh no, ’ 
said Paul, “ I will not leave you if night overtakes us in this 
wood, I will light a fire, and bring down# another palm-tree : 
you shall eat the cabbage, and I will form a covering of the 
leaves to shelter you.” In the mean time, Virginia being a little 
rested, she gathered from the trunk of an old tree, which over¬ 
hung the bank of the river, some long leaves of the plant called 
hart’s tongue, which grew near its root. Of these leaves she 
made a sort of buskin, with which she covered her feet, that 
were bleeding from the sharpness of the stony paths ; for in 
her eager desire to do good, she had forgotten to put on her 
shoes. Feeling her feet cooled by the freshness of the leaves, 
she broke off a branch of bamboo, and continued her walk, 
leaning with one hand on the staff, and with the other on Paul. 

They walked on in this manner slowly through the woods ; 
but from the height of the trees, and the thickness of their foli¬ 
age, they soon lost sight of the mountain of the Three Breasts, 
by which they had hitherto directed their course, and also of 
the sun, which was now setting. At length they wandered, 
without perceiving it, from the beaten path in which they had 
hitherto walked, and found themselves in a labyrinth of trees, 
underwood, and rocks, whence there appeared to be no outlet. 
Paul made Virginia sit down, while he ran backwards and for¬ 
wards, half frantic, in search of a path which might lead them 
out of this thick wood ; but he fatigued himself to no purpose. 
He then climbed to the top of a lofty tree, whence he hoped 
at least to perceive the mountain of the Three Breasts : but he 
could discern nothing around him but the tops of trees, some 
of which were gilded with the last beams of the setting sun. 
Already the shadows of the mountains were spreading ovei 
the forests in the valleys. The wind lulled, as is usually the 
case at sunset. The most profound silence reigned in those 
awful solitudes, which was only interrupted by the cry of the 
deer, who came to their lairs in that unfrequented spot. Paul, 
in the hope that some hunter would hear his voice, called out 
as loud as he was able,—“ Come, come to the help of Virginia.” 
But the echoes of the forest alone answered his call, and re* 
peated again and again, “ Virginia—Virginia.” 

Paul at length descended from the tree, overcome with 
fatigue and vexation. He looked around in order to make 
some arrangement for passing the night in that desert; but he 
could find neither fountain, nor palm-tree, nor even a branch 
of dry wood fit for kindling a tire. He was then impressed, 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


3S 

by experience, with the sense of his own weakness, and began 
to weep. Virginia said to him,—“ Do not weep, my dear 
brother, or I shall be overwhelmed with grief. I am the cause 
of all your sorrow, and of all that our mothers are suf¬ 
fering at this moment. I find we ought to do nothing, 
not even good, without consulting our parents. Oh, I 
have been very imprudent! ”—and she began to shed tears. 
“ Let us pray to God, my dear brother,” she again said, “ and 
he will hear us.” They had scarcely finished their prayer, 
when they heard the barking of a dog. “ It must be the dog 
of some hunter,” said Paul, who comes here at night, to lie in 
wait for the deer.” Soon afcer, the dog began barking again 
with increased violence. “Surely,” said Virginia, “it is 
Fidele, our own clog: yes,—now I know his bark. Are we 
then so near home ?—at the foot of our own mountain ? ” A 
moment after Fidele was at their feet, barking, howling, moan¬ 
ing, and devouring them with caresses. Before they could re¬ 
cover from their surprise, they saw Domingo running towards 
them. At the sight of the good old negro, who wept for joy, 
they began to weep too, but had not the power to utter a syl¬ 
lable. When Domingo had recovered himself a little, “ Oh, 
my dear children,” said he, “ how miserable have you made 
your mothers ! How astonished they were when they returned 
with me from mass, on not finding you at home. Mary, who 
was at work at a little distance, could not tell us where you 
were gone. I ran backwards and forwards in the plantation, 
not knowing where to look for you. At last I took some of 
your old clothes, and showing them to Fidele, the poor animal, 
as if he understood me, immediately began to scent your path; 
and conducted me, wagging his tail all the while, to the Black 
River. I there saw a planter, who told me you had brought 
back a Maroon negro woman, his slave, and that he had par¬ 
doned her at your request. But what a pardon ! he showed 
her to me with her feet chained to a block of wood, and an 
iron collar with three hooks fastened round her neck! After 
that, Fidele, still on the scent, led me up the steep bank of the 
Black River, where he again stopped, and barked with all his 
might. This was on the brink of a spring, near which was a 
fallen palm-tree, and a fire, still smoking. At last he led me 
to this very spot. We are now at the foot of the mountain of 
the Three Breasts, and still four good leagues from home. 
Come eat, and recover your strength.” Domingo then pre¬ 
sented them with a cake, some fruit, and a large gourd full of 
beverage composed of wine, water, lemon-juice, sugar, and nut- 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


) 6 

meg, which their mothers had prepared to invigorate and re¬ 
fresh them. Virginia sighed at the recollection of the poor 
slave, and at the uneasiness they had given their mothers. 
She repeated several times. “ Oh, how difficult it is to do 
good! ’ While she and Paul were taking refreshment, it be¬ 
ing already night, Domingo kindled a fire: and having found 
among the rocks a particular kind of twisted wood, called bois 
de ronde, which burns when quite green, and throws out a 
great blaze, he made a torch of it, which he lighted. But when 
they prepared to continue their journey, a new difficulty oc¬ 
curred ; Paul and Virginia could no longer walk, their feet be¬ 
ing violently swollen and inflamed. Domingo knew not w*hat 
to do; whether to leave them and go in search of help, or re¬ 
main and pass the night with them on that spot. “There was 
a time,” said he, “ when I could carry you both together in 
my arms ! But now you are grown big, and I am grown old.” 
While he was in this perplexity, a troop of Maroon negroes 
appeared at a short distance from them. The chief of the 
band, approaching Paul and Virginia, said to them,—“ Good 
little white people, do not be afraid. We saw you pass this 
morning, with a negro woman of the Black River. You went 
to ask pardon for her of her wicked master; and we, in return for 
this, will carry you home upon our shoulders.” He then made 
a sign, and four of the strongest negroes immediately formed 
a sort of litter with the branches of trees and lianas, and hav¬ 
ing seated Paul and Virginia on it, carried them upon their 
shoulders. Domingo marched in front with his lighted torch, 
<md they proceeded amidst the rejoicings of the whole troop, 
who overwhelmed them with their benedictions. Virginia, af¬ 
fected by this scene, said to Paul, with emotion,—“ Oh, my dear 
brother ! God never leaves a good action unrewarded.” 

It was midnight when they arrived at the foot of their 
mountain, on the ridges of which several fires were lighted. 
As soon as they began to ascend, they heard voices exclaim¬ 
ing—“ Is it you, my children ? ” They answered immediately, 
and the negroes also,—“ Yes, yes, it is.” A moment after 
they could distinguish their mothers and Mary coming towards 
them with lighted sticks in their hands. “ Unhappy children,” 
cried Madame de la Tour, “where have you been? What 
agonies you have made us suffer ! ”—“ We have been,” said Vir¬ 
ginia, “ to the Black River, where we went to ask pardon for a 
poor Maroon slave, to whom I gave our breakfast this morning, 
because she seemed dying of hunger; and these Maroon negroes 
have brought us home ” Madame de la Tour embraced her 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


37 

daughter, without being able to speak ; and Virginia, who felt 
her face wet with her mother’s tears, exclaimed, “ Now I am re¬ 
paid for all the hardships I have suffered.” Margaret, in a 
transport of delight, pressed Paul in her arms, exclaiming, 
“ And you also, my dear child, you have done a good action.” 
When they reached the cottages with their children, they en¬ 
tertained all the negroes with a plentiful repast, after which 
the latter returned to the woods, praying Heaven to shower 
down every description of blessing on those good white people. 

Every day was to these families a day of happiness and 
tranquillity. Neither ambition nor envy disturbed their repose. 
They did not seek to obtain a useless reputation out of doors, 
which may be procured by artifice and lost by calumny; but 
were contented to be the sole witnesses and judges of their 
own actions. In this island, where, as is the case in most 
colonies, scandal forms the principal topic of conversation, 
their virtues, and even their names, were unknown. The 
passer-by on the road to the Shaddock Grove, indeed, would 
sometimes ask the inhabitants of the plain, who lived in the 
cottages up there ? and was always told, even by those who 
did not know them, “ They are good people.” The modest 
violet thus, concealed in thorny places, sheds all unseen its de¬ 
lightful fragrance around. 

Slander, which, under an appearance of justice, naturally 
inclines the heart to falsehood or to hatred, was entirely ban¬ 
ished from their conversation; for it is impossible not to hate 
men if we believe them to be wicked, or to live with the wicked 
without concealing that hatred under a false pretence of good 
feeling. Slander thus puts us ill at ease with others and with 
ourselves. In this little circle, therefore, the conduct of indi¬ 
viduals was not discussed, but the best manner of doing good 
to all ; and although they had but little in their power, their 
unceasing good-will and kindness of heart made them con¬ 
stantly ready to do what they could for others. Solitude, far 
from having blunted these benevolent feelings, had rendered 
their dispositions even more kindly. Although the petty scan¬ 
dals of the day furnished no subject of conversation to them, 
yet the contemplation of nature filled their minds with enthm 
siastic delight. They adored the bounty of that Providence, 
which, by their instrumentality, had spread abundance and 
beauty amid these barren rocks, and had enabled them to 
enjoy those pure and simple pleasures, which are ever grateful 
and ever new. 

Paul, at twelve years of age, was stronger and more intelli- 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


38 

gent than most European youths are at fifteen; and the planta¬ 
tions, which Domingo merely cultivated, were embellished by 
him. He would go with the old negro into the neighboring 
woods, where he would root up the young plants of lemon, 
orange, and tamarind trees, the round heads of which are so 
fresh a green, together with date-palm trees, which produce 
fruit filled with a sweet cream, possessing the fine perfume of 
the orange flower. These trees, which had already attained 
to a considerable size, fie planted round their little enclosure. 
He had also sown the seed of many trees which the second 
year bear flowers or fruit; such as the agathis, encircled with 
long clusters of white flowers which hang from it like the crys¬ 
tal pendants of a chandelier; the Persian lilac, which lifts high 
in air its gray flax-colored branches ; the pappaw tree, the 
branchless trunk of which forms a column studded with green 
melons, surmounted by a capital of broad leaves similar to 
those of the fig-tree. 

The seeds and kernels of the gum tree, terminalia, mango, 
alligator pear, the guava, the bread-fruit tree, and the narrow¬ 
leaved rose-apple, were also planted by him with profusion : 
and the greater number of these trees already afforded their 
young cultivator both shade and fruit. His industrious hands 
diffused the riches of nature over even the most barren parts 
of the plantation. Several species of aloes, the Indian fig, 
adorned with yellow flowers spotted with red, and the thorny 
torch thistle, grew upon the dark summits of the rocks, and 
seemed to aim at reaching the long lianas, which, laden with 
blue or scarlet flowers, hung scattered over the steepest parts 
of the mountain. 

I loved to trace the ingenuity he had exercised in the ar¬ 
rangement of these trees. He had so disposed them that the 
whole could be seen at a single glance. In the middle of the 
hollow he had planted shrubs of the lowest growth ; behind 
grew the more lofty sorts ; then trees of the ordinary height; 
and beyond and above all, the venerable and lofty groves which 
border the circumference. Thus this extensive enclosure ap¬ 
peared, from its centre, like a verdant amphitheatre decorated 
with fruits and flowers, containing a variety of vegetables, some 
strips of meadow land, and fields of rice and corn. But, in 
arranging these vegetable productions to his own taste, he 
wandered not too far from the designs of Nature. Guided by 
her suggestions, he had thrown upon the elevated spots such 
seeds as the winds would scatter about, and near the borders 
of the springs those which float upon the water. Every plant 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


39 

thus grew in its proper soil, and every spot seemed decorated 
by Nature’s own hand. The streams which fell from the sum¬ 
mits of the rocks formed in some parts of the valley sparkling 
cascades, and in others were spread into broad mirrors, in 
which were reflected, set in verdure, the flowering trees, the 
overhanging rocks, and the azure heavens. 

Notwithstanding the great irregularity of the ground, 
these plantations were, for the most part, easy of access. We 
had, indeed, all given him our advice and assistance, in order 
to accomplish this end. Pie had conducted one path entirely 
round the valley, and various branches from it led from the 
circumference to the centre. He had drawn some advantage 
from the most rugged spots, and had blended, in harmonious 
union, level walks with the inequalities of the soil, and trees 
which grow wild with the cultivated varieties. With that im¬ 
mense quantity of large pebbles which now block up these 
paths, and which are scattered over most of the ground of this 
island, he formed pyramidal heaps here and there, at the base 
of which he laid mould, and planted rose-bushes, the Barbadoes 
flower-fence, and other shrubs which love to climb the rocks. 
In a short time the dark and shapeless heaps of stones he had 
constructed were covered with verdure, or with the glowing 
tints of the most beautiful flowers. Hollow recesses on the 
borders of the streams shaded by the overhanging boughs of 
aged trees, formed rural grottoes, impervious to the rays of the 
sun, in which you might enjoy a refreshing coolness during the 
mid-day heats. One path led to a clump of forest trees, in 
the centre of which, sheltered from the wind,, you found a fruit- 
tree, laden with produce. Here was a corn-field ; there, an 
orchard ; from one avenue you had a view of the cottages ; 
from another, of the inaccessible summit of the mountain. 
Beneath one tufted bower of gum-trees, interwoven with lianas, 
no object whatever could be perceived : while the point of the 
adjoining rock, jutting out from the mountain, commanded a 
view of the whole enclosure, and of the distant ocean, where, 
occasionally, we could discern the distant sail, arriving from 
Europe, or bound thither. On this rock the two families fre¬ 
quently met in the evening, and enjoyed in silewce the fresh¬ 
ness of the flowers, the gentle murmurs of the fountain, and 
the last blended harmonies of light and shade. 

Nothing could be more charming than the names which 
were bestowed upon some of the delightful retreats of this 
labyrinth. The rock of which I have been speaking, whence 
they could discern my approach at a considerable distjU*-<?e, was 


40 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA 


called the Discovery of Friendship. Paul and Virginia had 
amused themselves by planting a bamboo on that spot; and 
whenever they saw me coming, they hoisted a little white hand¬ 
kerchief, by way of signal at my approach, as they had seen a 
flag hoisted on the neighboring mountain on the sight of a 
vessel at sea. The idea struck me of engraving an inscription 
on the stalk of this reed; for 1 never, in the course of my 
travels, experienced anything like the pleasure in seeing a 
statue or other monument of ancient art, as in reading a well- 
written inscription. It seems to me as if a human voice issued 
from the stone, and, making itself heard after the lapse of 
ages, addressed man in the midst of a desert, to tell him that 
he is not alone, and that other men, on that very spot, had 
felt, and thought, and suffered like himself. If the inscription 
belongs to an ancient nation, which no longer exists, it leads 
the soul through infinite space, and strengthens the conscious¬ 
ness of its immortality, by demonstrating that a thought has 
survived the ruins of an empire. 

I inscribed then, on the little staff of Paul and Virginia’s 
flag, the following lines of Horace:— 

Fratres Helenae, lucida sidera, 

Ventorumque regat pater, 

Obstrictis, aliis, praeter Iapiga. 

** May the brothers of Helen, bright stars like you, and the Father of 
the winds, guide you; and may you feel only the breath of the zephyr.” 

There was a gum-tree, under the shade of which Paul was 
accustomed to sit, to contemplate the sea when agitated by 
storms. On the bark of this tree, I engraved the following 
lines from Virgil:— 

Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes! 

u Happy art thou, my son, in knowing only the pastoral divinities.” 

And over the door of Madame de la Tour’s cottage, whera 
the families so frequently met, I placed this line :— 

At secura quies, et nescia fallere vita. 

** Here dwell a calm conscience, and a life that knows not deceit.” 

But Virginia did not approve of my Latin : she said, that 
what I had placed at the foot of her flag-staff was too long and 
too learned. “ I should have liked better,” added she, “ to 
have seen inscribed, ever agitated, yet constant.” —“ Such 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


41 

a motto/ 7 I answered, “ would have been still more applicable 
to virtue.’ 7 My reflection made her blush. 

The delicacy of sentiment of these happy families was 
manifested in everything around them. They gave the ten- 
derest names to objects in appearance the most indifferent. A 
border of orange, plantain, and rose-apple trees, planted round 
a green sward where Virginia and Paul sometimes danced, re¬ 
ceived the name of Concord. An old tree, beneath the shade 
of which Madame de la Tour and Margaret used to recount 
their misfortunes, was called the Burial-place of Tears. They 
bestowed the names of Brittany and Normandy on two little 
plots of ground, where they had sown corn, strawberries, and 
peas. Domingo and Mary, wishing, in imitation of their mis¬ 
tresses, to recall to mind Angola and Foullepointe, the places 
of their birth in Africa, gave those names to the little fields 
where the grass was sown with which they wove their baskets, 
and where they had planted a calabash-tree. Thus by cultivat¬ 
ing the productions of their respective climates, these exiled 
families cherished the dear illusions which bind us to our 
native country, and softened their regrets in a foreign land. 
Alas! I have seen these trees, these fountains, these heaps of 
stones, which are now so completely overthrown,—which now, 
like the desolated plains of Greece, present nothing but masses 
of ruin and affecting remembrances, all but called into life by 
the many charming appellations thus bestowed upon them ! 

But perhaps the most delightful spot of this enclosure was 
that called Virginia’s resting-place. At the foot of the rock 
which bore the name of the Discovery of Friendship, is a small 
crevice, whence issues a fountain, forming, near its source, a 
little spot of marshy soil in the middle of a field of rich grass. 
At the time of Paul’s birth I had made Margaret a present of 
an Indian cocoa which had been given me, and which she 
planted on the border of this fenny ground, in order that the 
tree might one day serve to mark the epoch of her son’s birth. 
Madame de la Tour planted another cocoa with the same view, 
at the birth of Virginia. These nuts produced two cocoa-trees, 
which formed the only records of the two families; one was 
called Paul’s tree, the other, Virginia’s. Their growth was in 
the same proportion as that of the two young persons, not 
exactly equal: but they rose, at the end of twelve years, above 
the roofs of the cottages. Already their tender stalks were in¬ 
terwoven, and clusters of young cocoas hung from them over 
the basin of the fountain. With the exception of these two 
trees, this nook of the rock was left as it had been decorated 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


42 

by nature. On its embrowned and moist sides broad plants of 
maiden-hair glistened with their green and dark stars ; and 
tufts of wave-leaved hart’s tongue, suspended like long ribbons 
of purpled green, floated on the wind. Near this grew a chain 
of the Madagascar periwinkle, the flowers of which resemble 
the red gilliflower : and the long-podded capsicum, the seed- 
vessels of which are of the color of blood, and more resplen¬ 
dent than coral. Near them, the herb balm, with its heart- 
shaped leaves, and the sweet basil, which has the odor of the 
clove, exhaled the most delicious perfumes. From the pre¬ 
cipitous side of the mountain hung the graceful lianas, like 
floating draperies, forming magnificent canopies of verdure on 
the face of the rocks. The sea-birds, allured by the stillness 
of these retreats, resorted here to pass the night. At the hour 
of sunset we could perceive the curlew and the stint skimming 
along the sea-shore; the frigate-bird poised high in air; and 
the white bird of the tropic, which abandons, with the star of 
day, the solitudes of the Indian ocean. Virginia took pleasure 
\n resting herself upon the border of this fountain, decorated 
with wild and sublime magnificence. She often went thither to 
wash the linen of the family beneath the shade of the two 
cocoa-trees, and thither too she sometimes led her goats to 
graze. While she was making cheeses of their milk, she loved 
to see them browse on the maiden-hair fern which clothed the 
steep sides of the rock, and hung suspended by one of its cor¬ 
nices, as on a pedestal. Paul, observing that Virginia was 
fond of this spot, brought thither, from the neighboring forest, 
a great variety of bird’s nests. The old birds following their 
young, soon established themselves in this new colony. Vir¬ 
ginia, at stated times, distributed amongst them grains of rice, 
millet, and maize. As soon as she appeared, the whistling 
blackbird, the amadavid bird, whose note is so soft, the cardi¬ 
nal, with its flame-colored plumage, forsook their bushes ; the 
parroquet, green as an emerald, descended from the neighbor¬ 
ing fan-palms, the partridge ran along the grass ; all advanced 
promiscuously towards her, like a brood of chickens: and she 
and Paul found an exhaustless source of amusement in observ¬ 
ing their sports, their repasts, and their loves. 

Amiable children! thus passed your earlier days in inno¬ 
cence, and in obeying the impulses of kindness. How many 
times, on this very spot, have your mothers, pressing you in 
their arms, blessed Heaven for the consolation your unfolding 
virtues prepared for their declining years, while they at the 
same time enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing you begin life 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


43 

tinder the happiest auspices ! How many times, beneath the 
shade of those rocks, have I partaken with them of your rural 
repasts, which never cost any animal its life ! Gourds full of 
milk, fresh eggs, cakes of rice served up on plantain leaves, 
with baskets of mangoes, oranges, dates, pomegranates, pine¬ 
apples, furnished a wholesome repast, the most agreeable to 
the eye, as well as delicious to the taste, that can possibly be 
imagined. 

Like the repast, the conversation was mild, and free from 
everything having a tendency to do harm. Paul often talked 
of the labors of the day and of the morrow. He was continu¬ 
ally planning something'for the accommodation of their little 
society. Here he discovered that the paths were rugged ; 
there, that the seats were uncomfortable: sometimes the young 
arbors did not afford sufficient shade, and Virginia might be 
better pleased elsewhere. 

During the rainy season the two families met together in 
the cottage, and employed themselves in weaving mats of grass, 
and baskets of bamboo. Rakes, spades, and hatchets, were 
ranged along the walls in the most perfect order; and near 
these instruments of agriculture were heaped its products,—• 
bags of rice, sheaves of corn, and baskets of plantains. Some 
degree of luxury usually accompanies abundance and Vir¬ 
ginia was taught by her mother and Margaret to prepare sher- 
bert and cordials from the juice of the sugar-cane, the lemon 
and the citron. 

When night came, they all supped together by the light of 
a lamp; after which Madame de la Tour or Margaret related 
some story of travellers benighted in those woods of Europe 
that are still infested by banditti; or told a dismal tale of some 
shipwrecked vessel, thrown by the tempest upon the rocks of 
a desert island. To these recitals the children listened with 
eager attention, and earnestly hoped that Heaven would one 
day grant them the joy of performing the rites of hospitality 
towards such unfortunate persons. When the time for repose 
arrived, the two families separated and* retired for the night, 
eager to meet again the following morning. Sometimes they 
were lulled to repose by the beating of the rains, which fell in 
torrents upon the roofs of their cottages, and sometimes by the 
hollow winds, which brought to their ear the distant roar of 
the waves breaking upon the shore. They blessed God for 
their own safety, the feeling of which was brought home more 
forcibly to their minds by the sound of remote danger. 

Madame de la Tour occasionally read aloud some affecting 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


44 

history of the Old or New Testament. Her auditors reasoned 
but little upon these sacred volumes, for their theology centred 
in a feeling of devotion towards the Supreme Being, like that 
of nature ; and their morality was an active principle, like that 
of the Gospel. These families had no particular days devoted 
to pleasure, and others to sadness. Every day was to them a 
holiday, and all that surrounded them one holy temple, in 
which they ever adored the Infinite Intelligence, the Almighty 
God, the Friend of human kind. A feeling of confidence in 
his supreme power filled their minds with consolation for the 
past, with fortitude under present trials, and with hope in the 
future. Compelled by misfortune to'return almost to a state 
of nature, these excellent women had thus developed in their 
own and their children’s bosoms the feelings most natural to 
the human mind, and its best support under affliction. 

But, as clouds sometimes arise, and cast a gloom over the 
best regulated tempers, so whenever any member of this little 
society appeared to be laboring under dejection, the rest 
assembled around, and endeavored to banish her painful 
thoughts by amusing the mind rather than by grave arguments 
against them. Each performed this kind office in their own 
appropriate manner : Margaret, by her gayety ;• Madame de la 
Tour, by the gentle consolations of religion ; Virginia, by hei 
tender caresses; Paul, by his frank and engaging cordiality. 
Even Mary and Domingo hastened to offer their succor, and 
to weep with those that wept. Thus do weak plants interweave 
themselves with each other, in order to withstand the fury of 
the tempest. 

During the fine season, they went every Sunday to the 
church of the Shaddock Grove, the steeple of which you see 
yonder upon the plain. Many wealthy members of the congre¬ 
gation, who came to church in palanquins, sought the acquaint’ 
ance of these united families, and invited them to parties of 
pleasure. But they always repelled these overtures with re¬ 
spectful politeness, as they were persuaded that the rich and 
powerful seek the society of persons in an inferior station only 
for the sake of surrounding themselves with flatterers, and that 
every flatterer must applaud alike all the actions of his patron, 
whether good or bad. On the other hand, they avoided, with 
equal care, too intimate an acquaintance with the lower class, 
who are ordinarily jealous, calumniating, and gross. They 
thus acquired, with some, the character of being timid, and with 
others, of pride: but their reserve was accompanied with so 
much obliging politeness, above all towards the unfortunate 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


4 | 

and the unhappy, that they insensibly acquired the respect of 
the rich and the confidence of the poor. 

After service, some kind office was often required at their 
hands by their poor neighbors. Sometimes a person troubled 
in mind sought their advice ; sometimes a child begged them 
to visit its sick mother, in one of the adjoining hamlets. They 
always took with them a few remedies for the ordinary diseases 
of the country, which they administered in that soothing man¬ 
ner which stamps a value upon the smallest favors. Above all, 
they met with singular success in administering to the disorders 
of the mind, so intolerable in solitude, and under the infirmities 
of a weakened frame. Madame de la Tour spoke with such 
sublime confidence of the Divinity, that the sick, while listening 
to her, almost believed him present. Virginia often returned 
home with her eyes full of tears, and her heart overflowing 
with delight, at having had an opportunity of doing good ; for 
to her generally was confided the task of preparing and admin¬ 
istering the medicines,—a task which she fulfilled with angelic 
sweetness. After these visits of charity, they sometimes ex¬ 
tended their walk by the Sloping Mountain, till they reached 
my dwelling, where I used to prepare dinner for them on the 
banks of the little rivulet which glides near my cottage. I pro¬ 
cured for these occasions a few bottles of old wine, in order to 
heighten the relish of our Oriental repast by the more genial 
productions of Europe. At other times we met on the sea-shore 
at the mouth of some little river, or rather mere brook. We 
brought from home the provisions furnished us by our gardens, 
to which we added those supplied us by the sea in abundant 
variety. We caught on these shores the mullet, the roach, and 
the sea-urchin, lobsters, shrimps, crabs, oysters, and all other 
kinds of shell-fish. In this way, we often enjoyed the most 
tranquil pleasures in situations the most terrific. Sometimes, 
seated upon a rock, under the shade of the velvet sunflower-tree, 
we saw the enormous waves of the Indian Ocean break beneath 
our feet with a tremendous noise. Paul, who could swim like 
a fish, would advance on the reefs to meet the coming billows ; 
then, at their near approach, would run back to the beach, 
closely pursued by the foaming breakers, which threw them¬ 
selves, with a roaring noise, far on the sands. But Virginia, at 
this sight, uttered piercing cries, and said that such sports 
frightened her too much. 

Other amusements were not wanting on these festive occa¬ 
sion*. Our repasts were generally followed by the songs and 
dances of the two young people. Virginia sang the happiness 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA 


46 

of pastoral life, and the misery of those who were impelled by 
avarice to cross the raging ocean, rather than cultivate the 
earth, and enjoy its bounties in peace. Sometimes she per- 
formed a pantomime with Paul, after the manner of the negroes. 
The first language of man is pantomime : it is known to all na¬ 
tions, and is so natural and expressive, that the children of the 
European inhabitants catch it with facility from the negroes. 
Virginia, recalling, from among the histories which her mother 
had read to her, those which had affected her most, represented 
the principal events in them with beautiful simplicity. Some¬ 
times at the sound of Domingo’s tantam she appeared upon the 
green sward, bearing a pitcher upon her head, and advanced 
with a timid step towards the source of a neighboring fountain 
to draw water. Domingo and Mary, personating the shepherds 
of Midian, forbade her to approach, and repulsed her sternly. 
Upon this Paul flew to her succor, beat away the shepherds, 
filled Virginia’s pitcher, and placing it upon her head, bound 
her brows at the same time with a wreath of the red flowers of 
the Madagascar periwinkle, which served to heighten the deli¬ 
cacy of her complexion. Then joining in their sports, I took 
upon myself the part of Raguel, and bestowed upon Paul, my 
daughter Zephora in marriage. 

Another time Virginia would represent the unhappy Ruth, 
returning poor and widowed with her mother-in-law, who, after 
so prolonged an absence, found herself as unknown as in a for¬ 
eign land. Domingo and Mary personated the reapers. The 
supposed daughter of Naomi followed their steps, gleaning here 
and there a few ears of corn. When interrogated by Paul,—a 
part which he performed with the gravity of a patriarch,—she 
answered his questions with a faltering voice. He then, touched 
with compassion, granted an asylum to innocence, and hospi¬ 
tality to misfortune. He filled her lap with plenty; and, lead¬ 
ing her towards us as before the elders of the city, declared his 
purpose to take her in marriage. At this scene, Madame de 
la Tour, recalling the desolate situation in which she had been 
left by her relations, her widowhood, and the kind reception 
she had met with from Margaret, succeeded now by the sooth¬ 
ing hope of a happy union between their children, could not 
forbear weeping; and these mixed recollections of good and 
evil caused us all to unite with her in shedding tears of sorrow 
and of joy. 

These dramas were performed with such an air of reality 
that you might have fancied yourself transported to the plains 
of Syria or of Palestine, We were not unfurnished with deco 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


47 

rations, lights, or an orchestra, suitable to the representation. 
The scene was generally placed in an open space of the forest, 
the diverging paths from which formed around us numerous 
arcades of foliage, under which we were sheltered from the heat 
all the middle of the day ; but when the sun descended towards 
the horizon, its rays, broken by the trunks of the trees, darted 
amongst the shadows of the forest in long lines of light, pro¬ 
ducing the most magnificent effect. Sometimes its broad disk 
appeared at the end of an avenue, lighting it up with insuffer¬ 
able brightness. The foliage of the trees, illuminated from be¬ 
neath by its saffron beams, glowed with the lustre of the topaz 
and the emerald. Their brown and mossy trunks appeared 
transformed into columns of antique bronze; and the birds, 
which had retired in silence to their leafy shades to pass the 
night, surprised to see the radiance of the second morning, 
hailed the star of day all together with innumerable carols. 

Night often overtook us during these rural entertainments ; 
but the purity of the air and the warmth of the climate, ad¬ 
mitted of our sleeping in the woods, without incurring any dan¬ 
ger by exposure to the weather, and no less secure from the 
molestation of robbers. On our return the following day to our 
respective habitations, we found them in exactly the same state 
in which they had been left. In this island, then unsophisti¬ 
cated by the pursuits of commerce, such were the honesty and 
primitive manners of the population, that the doors of many 
houses were without a key, and even a lock itself was an 
object of curiosity to not a few of the native inhabitants. 

There were, however, some days in the years celebrated by 
Paul and Virginia in a more peculiar manner; these were the 
birth-days of their mothers. Virginia never failed the day 
before to prepare some wheaten cakes, which she distributed 
among a few poor white families, born in the island, who had 
never eaten European bread. These unfortunate people, un¬ 
cared for by the blacks, were reduced to live on tapioca in the 
woods; and as they had neither the insensibility which is the 
result of slavery, nor the fortitude which springs from a liberal 
education, to enable them to support their poverty, their situa¬ 
tion was deplorable. These cakes were all that Virginia had it 
in her power to give away, but she conferred the gift in so 
delicate a manner as to add tenfold to its value. In the first 
place, Paul was commissioned to take the cakes himself to these 
families, and get their promise to come and spend the next day 
at Madame de la Tour’s. Accordingly, mothers of families, 
with two or three thin, yellow, miserable looking daughters, so 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


timid that they dared not look up, made their appearance. 
Virginia soon put them at their ease ; she waited upon them 
with refreshments, the excellence of which she endeavored to 
heighten by relating some particular circumstance which in her 
own estimation, vastly improved them. One beverage had 
been prepared by Margaret; another, by her mother: her 
brother himself had climbed some lofty tree for the very fruit she 
was presenting. She would then get Paul to dance with them, 
nor would she leave them till she saw that they were happy. 
She wished them to partake of the joy of her own family. “It 
is only,” she said, “ by promoting the happiness of others, that 
we can secure our own.” When they left, she generally pre¬ 
sented them with some little article they seemed to fancy, en¬ 
forcing their acceptance of it by some delicate pretext, that she 
might not appear to know they were in want. If she remarked 
that their clothes were much tattered, she obtained her mo¬ 
ther’s permission to give them some of her own, and then sent 
Paul to leave them secretly at their cottage doors. She thus 
followed the divine precept,—concealing the benefactor, and 
revealing only the benefit. 

Your Europeans, whose minds are imbued from infancy with 
prejudices at variance with happiness, cannot imagine all the 
instruction and pleasure to be derived from nature. Your souls, 
confined to a small sphere of intelligence, soon reach the limit 
of its artificial enjoyments: but nature and the heart are inex¬ 
haustible. Paul and Virginia had neither clock, nor almanack, 
nor books of chronology, history or philosophy. The periods 
of their lives were regulated by those of the operations of nature, 
and their familiar conversation had a reference to the changes 
of the seasons. They knew the time of day by the shadows of 
the trees ; the seasons, by the times when those trees bore 
flowers or fruit; and the years, by the number of their harvests. 
These soothing images diffused an inexpressible charm over 
their conversation. “ It is time to dine,” said Virginia, “ the 
shadows of the plantain-trees are at their roots : ” or, “ Night 
approaches, the tamarinds are closing their leaves.” “ When 
will you come and see us ? ” inquired some of her companions 
in the neighborhood. “At the time of the sugar-canes,” an¬ 
swered Virginia. “ Your visit will be then still more delight¬ 
ful,” resumed her young acquaintances. When she was asked 
what was her own age and that of Paul,—“ My brother,” said 
she, “ is as old as the great cocoa-tree of the fountain ; and I am 
as old as the little one: the mangoes have bore fruit twelve times, 
and the orange-trees have flowered four-and-twenty times, since X 


PAUL A LTD VtRCimA. 


49 

came into the world.” Their lives seemed linked to that z>f the 
trees, like those of Fauns or Dryads. They knew no other his¬ 
torical epochs than those of the lives of their mothers, no other 
chronology than that of their orchards, and no other philosophy 
than that of doing good, and resigning themselves to the will of 
Heaven. 

What need, indeed, had these young people of riches or 
learning such as ours ? Even their necessities and their ignor¬ 
ance increased their happiness. No day passed in which they 
were not of some service to one another, or in which they did 
not mutually impart some instruction. Yes, instruction; for if 
errors mingled with it, they were, at least, not’ of a dangerous 
character. A pure-minded being has none of that description 
to fear. Thus grew these children of nature. No care had 
troubled their peace, no intemperance had corrupted their 
blood, no misplaced passion had depraved their hearts. Love, 
innocence, and piety, possessed their souls; and those intel¬ 
lectual graces were unfolding daily in their features, their atti¬ 
tudes, and their movements. Still in the morning of life, they 
had all its blooming freshness : and surely such in the garden 
of Eden appeared our first parents, when coming from the 
hands of God, they first saw, and approached each other, and 
conversed together, like brother and sister. Virginia was 
gentle, modest, and confiding as Eve ; and Paul, like Adam, 
united the stature of manhood with the simplicity of a child. 

Sometimes, if alone with Virginia, he has a thousand times 
told me, he used to say to her, on his return from labor,— 
“ When I am wearied, the sight of you refreshes me. If from 
the summit of the mountain I perceive you below in the valley, 
you appear to me in the midst of our orchard like a blooming 
rose-bud. If you go towards our mother’s house, the partridge, 
when it runs to meet its young, has a shape less beautiful, and 
a step less light. When I lose sight of you through the trees, 
1 have no need to see you in order to find you again. Some¬ 
thing of you, I know not how, remains for me in the air through 
which you have passed, on the grass whereon you have been 
seated. When I come near you, you delight all my senses. 
The azure of the sky is less charming than the blue of your 
eyes, and the song of the amadavid bird less soft than the 
sound of your voice. If I only touch you with the tip of my 
finger, my whole frame trembles with pleasure. Do you re¬ 
member the day when we crossed over the great stones of the 
iver of the Three Breasts? I was very tired before we 
reached the bank: but as soon as I had taken you m my arms, 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


5° 

I seemed to have wings like a bird. Tell me by what charm 
you have thus enchanted me ? Is it by your wisdom ?—Our 
mothers have more than either of us. Is it by your caresses ? 
—They embrace me much oftener than you. I think it must 
be by your goodness. I shall never forget how you walked 
bare-footed to the Black River, to ask pardon for the poor 
runaway slave. Here, my beloved, take this flowering branch 
of a lemon-tree, which I have gathered in the forest: you will 
let it remain at night near your bed. Eat this honey-comb too^ 
which I have taken for you from the top ot a rock. But fin:C 
lean on my bosom, and I shall be refreshed.” 

Virginia would answer him,—“ Oh, my dear brother,the rays 
of the sun in the morning on the tops of the rocks give me less 
joy than the sight of you. I love my mother,—I love yours ; 
but when they call you their son, I love them a thousand times 
more. When they caress you, I feel it more sensibly than 
when I am caressed myself. You ask me what makes you 
love me. Why, all creatures that are brought up together love 
one another. Look at our birds ; reared up in the same nests, 
they love each other as we do ; they are always together like 
us. Hark ! how they call and answer from one tree to another. 
So when the echoes bring to my ears the air which you play 
on your flute on the top of the mountain, I repeat the words at 
the bottom of the valley. You are dear to me more especially 
since the day when you wanted to fight the master of the slave 
for me. Since that time how often have I said to myself, ‘ All, 
my brother has a good heart; but for him, I should have died 
of terror.’ I pray to God every day for my mother and for 
yours, and for our poor servants ; but when I pronounce your 
name, my devotion seems to increase;—I ask so earnestly cf 
God that no harm may befall you ! Why do you go so far, and 
climb so high, to seek fruits and flowers for me ? Have we 
not enough in our garden already ? How much you are fa¬ 
tigued,—you look so warm ! ”—and with her little white hand¬ 
kerchief she would wipe the damps from his face, and then im¬ 
print a tender kiss on his forehead. 

. For some time past, however, Virginia had felt her heart 
agitated by new sensations. Her beautiful blue eyes lost their 
lustre, her cheek its freshness, and her frame was overpowered 
with a universal languor. Serenity no longer sat upon her brow, 
nor smiles played upon her lips. She would become ah at 
once gay without cause for joy, and melancholy without any 
subject for grief. She fled her innocent amusements, her gen¬ 
tle toils, and even the society of her beloved family • wander* 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . ' 


s* 

!ng about the most unfrequented parts of the plantations, and 
seeking everywhere the rest which she could nowhere find. 
Sometimes, at the sight of Paul, she advanced sportively to 
meet him ; but, when about to accost him, was overcome by 
a sudden confusion; her pale cheeks were covered with 
blushes, and her eyes no longer dared to meet those of her 
brother. Paul said to her,— 1 “ The rocks are covered with 
verdure, our birds begin to sing when you approach, every¬ 
thing around you is gay, and you only are unhappy.” He then 
endeavored to soothe her by his embraces, but she turned 
away her head, and fled, trembling towards her mother. The 
caresses of her brother excited too much emotion in her agi¬ 
tated heart, and she sought, in the arms of her mother, refuge 
from herself. Paul, unused to the secret windings of the 
female heart, vexed himself in vain in endeavoring to compre¬ 
hend the meaning of these new and strange caprices. Mis¬ 
fortunes seldom come alone, and a serious calamity now im¬ 
pended over these families. 

One of those summers, which sometimes desolate the coun¬ 
tries situated between the tropics, now began to spread its 
ravages over this island. It was near the end of December, 
when the sun, in Capricorn, darts over the Mauritius, during 
the space of three weeks, its vertical fires. The south-east 
wind, which prevails throughout almost the whole year, no 
longer blew. Vast columns of dust arose from the highways, 
and hung suspended in the air; the ground was everywhere 
broken into clefts; the grass was burnt up; hot exhalations 
issued from the sides of the mountains, and their rivulets, for the 
most part, became dry. No refreshing cloud ever arose from 
the sea : fiery vapors, only, during the day, ascended from the 
plains, and appeared, at sunset, like the reflection of a vast 
conflagration. Night brought no coolness to the heated at¬ 
mosphere ; and the red moon rising in the misty horizon, ap¬ 
peared of supernatural magnitude. The drooping cattle, on 
the sides of the hills, stretching out their necks towards heaven, 
and panting for breath, made the valleys re-echo with their 
melancholy lowings: even the Caffre by whom they were led 
threw himself upon the earth, in search of some cooling mois¬ 
ture : but his hopes were vain; the scorching sun had pene¬ 
trated the whole soil, and, the stifling atmosphere everywhere 
resounded with the buzzing noise of insects, seeking to allay 
their thirst with the blood of men and of animals. 

During this sultry season, Virginia’s restlessness and dis¬ 
quietude were much increased. One night, in particular, being 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


5* 

unable to sleep, she arose from her bed, sat down, and returned 
to rest again ; but could find in no attitude either slumber or 
repose. At length she bent her way, by the light of the moon, 
towards her fountain, and gazed at its spring, which, notwith¬ 
standing the drought, still trickled, in silver threads down the 
brown sides of the rock. She flung herself into the basin : its 
coolness reanimated her spirits, and a thousand soothing re¬ 
membrances came to her mind. She recollected that in her in¬ 
fancy her mother and Margaret had amused themselves by bath¬ 
ing her with Paul in this very spot ; that he afterwards, reserv¬ 
ing this bath for her sole use, had hallowed out its bed, covered 
the bottom with sand, and sown aromatic herbs around its 
borders. She saw in the water, upon her naked arms and 
bosom, the reflection of the two cocoa trees which were planted 
at her own and her brother’s birth, and which interwove above 
her head their green branches and young fruit. She thought 
of Paul’s friendship, sweeter than the odor of the blossoms, 
purer than the waters of the fountain, stronger than the inter¬ 
twining palm-tree, and she sighed. Reflecting on the hour of 
the night, and the profound solitude, her imagination became 
disturbed. Suddenly she flew, affrighted, from those dangerous 
shades, and those waters which seemed to her hotter than the 
tropical sunbeam, and ran to her mother for refuge. More 
than once, wishing to reveal her sufferings, she pressed her 
mother’s hand within her own; more than once she was ready 
to pronounce the name of Paul: but her oppressed heart left 
her lips no power of utterance, and, leaning her head on her 
mother’s bosom, she bathed it with her tears. 

Madame de la Tour, though she easily discerned the source 
of her daughter’s uneasiness, did not think proper to speak to 
her on the subject. “ My dear child,” said she, “ offer up your 
supplications to God, who disposes at his will of health and of 
life. He subjects you to trial now, in order to recompense you 
hereafter. Remember that we are only placed upon earth for 
the exercise of virtue.” 

The excessive heat in the mean time raised vast masses of 
vapor from the ocean, which hung over the island like an im¬ 
mense parasol, and gathered round the summits of the moun¬ 
tains. Long flakes of fire issued from time to time from these 
mist-embosomed peaks. The most awful thunder soon after 
re-echoed through the woods, the plains, and the valleys ; the 
rains fell from the skies in cataracts ; foaming torrents rushed 
down the sides of this mountain ; the bottom of the valley be¬ 
came a sea, and the elevated platform on which the cottages 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


S3 

were built, a little island. The accumulated waters, having no 
other outlet-, rushed with violence through the narrow gorge 
which leads into the valley, tossing and roaring, and bearing 
along with them a mingled wreck of soil, trees, and rocks. 

The trembling families meantime addressed their prayers to 
God all together in the cottage of Madame de la Tour, the roof of 
which cracked fearfully from the force of the winds. So inces¬ 
sant and vivid were the lightnings, that although the doors and 
window-shutters were securely fastened, every object without 
could be distinctly seen through the joints in the wood-work ! 
Paul, followed by Domingo, went with intrepidity from one cot¬ 
tage to another, notwithstanding the fury of the tempest; here 
supporting a partition with a buttress, there driving in a stake ; 
and only returning to the family to calm their fears, by the ex¬ 
pression of a hope that the storm was passing away. Accord¬ 
ingly, in the evening the rains ceased, the trade-winds of the 
south-east pursued their ordinary course, the tempestuous clouds 
were driven away to the northward, and the setting sun appeared 
in the horizon. 

Virginia’s first wish was to visit the spot called her Resting- 
place. Paul approached her with a timid air, and offered her 
the assistance of his arm; she accepted it with a smile, and 
they left the cottage together. The air was clear and fresh: 
white vapors arose from the ridges of the mountain, which was 
furrowed here and there by the courses of torrents, marked in 
foam, and now beginning to dry up on all sides. As for the 
garden, it was completely torn to pieces by deep water-courses, 
the roots of most of the fruit trees were laid bare, and vast 
heaps of sand covered the borders of the meadows, and had 
choked up Virginia’s bath. The two cocoa trees, however, 
were still erect, and still retained their freshness ; but they were 
no longer surrounded by turf, or arbors, or birds, except a few 
amadavid birds, 'which, upon the points of the neighboring 
rocks, were lamenting, in plaintive notes, the loss of their 
young. 

At the sight of this general desolation, Virginia exclaimed 
to Paul,—“ You brought birds hither, and the hurricane has 
killed them. You planted this garden, and it is now destroyed. 
Everything then upon earth perishes, and it is only Heaven 
that is not subject to change.”—“ Why,” answered Paul, “ can¬ 
not I give you something that belongs to Heaven ? but I have 
nothing of my own even upon the earth.” Virginia with a 
blush replied, “ You have the picture of St. Paul.” .As soon 
as she had uttered the words, he flew in quest of it to his 

2Q 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


54 

mother’s cottage. This picture was a miniature of Paul the 
Hermit, which Margaret, who viewed it with feelings of great 
devotion, had worn at her neck while a girl, and which, after 
she became a mother, she had placed round her child’s. It had 
even happened, that being, while pregnant, abandoned by all 
the world, and constantly occupied in contemplating the image 
of this benevolent recluse, her offspring had contracted some 
resemblance to this revered object. She therefore bestowed 
upon him the name of Paul, giving him for his patron a saint 
who had passed his life far from mankind by whom he had been 
first deceived and then forsaken. Virginia, on receiving this 
little present from the hands of Paul, said to him, with emo¬ 
tion, “ My dear brother, I will never part with this while I live ; 
nor will I ever forget that you have given me the only thing 
you have in this world.” At this tone of friendship,—this un¬ 
hoped for return of familiarity and tenderness, Paul attempted 
to embrace her; but, light as a bird, she escaped him, and fled 
away, leaving him astonished, and unable to account for con¬ 
duct so extraordinary. 

Meanwhile Margaret said to Madame de la Tour, “ Why 
do we not unite our children by marriage ? They have a strong 
attachment for each other, and though my son hardly under¬ 
stands the real nature of his feelings, yet great care and watch¬ 
fulness will be necessary. Under such circumstances, it will 
be as well not to leave them too much together.” Madame de 
la Tour replied, “ They are too young, and too poor. What 
grief would it occasion us to see Virginia bring into the world 
unfortunate children, whom she would not perhaps have suffi¬ 
cient strength to rear! Your negro, Domingo, is almost too old 
to labor; Mary is infirm. As for myself, my dear friend, at 
the end of fifteen years, I find my strength greatly decreased ; 
the feebleness of age advances rapidly in hot climates, and, 
above all, under the pressure of misfortune. Paul is our only 
hope : let us wait till he comes to maturity, and his increased 
strength enables him to support us by his labor ; at present 
you well know that we have only sufficient to supply the wants 
of the day: but were we to send Paul for a short time to the 
Indies, he might acquire, by commerce, the means of purchas¬ 
ing some slaves; and at his return we could unite him to Vir¬ 
ginia ; for I am persuaded no one on earth would render her 
so happy as your son. We will consult our neighbor on this 
subject.” 

They accordingly asked my advice, which was in accordance 
with Madame de la Tour’s opinion. “ The Indian seas,” I ob- 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


55 

served to them, “ are calm, and, in choosing a favorable time 
of the year, the voyage out is seldom longer than six weeks; 
and the same time may be allowed for the return home. We 
will furnish Paul with a little venture from my neighborhood, 
where he is much beloved. If we were only to supply him with 
some raw cotton, of which we make no use for want of mills to 
work it, some ebony, which is here so common that it serves us 
for firing, and some rosin, which is found in our woods, he 
would be able to sell those articles, though useless here, to 
good advantage in the Indies.” 

I took upon myself to obtain permission from Monsieur de 
la Bourdonnais to undertake this voyage; and I determined 
previously to mention the affair to Paul. But what was my 
surprise, when this young man said to me, with a degree of 
good sense above his age, “ And why do you wish me to leave 
my family for this precarious pursuit of fortune ? Is there 
any commerce in the world more advantageous than the culture 
of the ground, which yields sometimes fifty or a hundred-fold ? 
If we wish to engage in commerce, can we not do so by carry¬ 
ing our superfluities to the town without my wandering to the 
Indies ? Our mothers tell me, that Domingo is old and feeble ; 
but I am young, and gather strength every day. If any acci¬ 
dent should happen during my absence, above all to Virginia, 
who already suffers—Oh, no, no !—I cannot resolve to leave 
them.” 

So decided an answer threw me into great perplexity, for 
Madame de la Tour had not concealed from me the cause of 
Virginia’s illness and want of spirits, and her desire of separat¬ 
ing these young people till they were a few years older. I took 
care, however, not to drop anything which could lead Paul to 
suspect the existence of these motives. 

About this period a ship from France brought Madame de 
la Tour a letter from her aunt. The fear of death, without 
which hearts as insensible as her’s would never feel, had 
alarmed her into compassion. When she wrote she was recov¬ 
ering from a dangerous illness, which had, however, left her 
incurably languid and weak. She desired her niece to return 
to France : or, if her health forbade her to undertake so long a 
voyage, she begged her to send Virginia, on whom she promised 
to bestow a good education, to procure for her a splendid mar¬ 
riage and to leave her heiress of her whole fortune. She con¬ 
cluded by enjoining strict obedience to her will, in gratitude, 
she said, for her great kindness. 

At the perusal of this letter general consternation spretd 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


56 

itself through the whole assembled party, Domingo and Mary 
began to weep. Paul, motionless with surprise, appeared al¬ 
most ready to burst with indignation; while Virginia, fixing 
her eyes anxiously upon her mother, had not power to utter a 
single word. “ And can you now leave us ? ” cried Margaret 
to Madame de la Tour. “ No, my dear friend, no, my beloved 
children,” replied Madame de la Tour; “ I will never leave 
you. I have lived with you, and with you I will die. I have 
known no happiness but in your affection. If my health be 
deranged, my past misfortunes are the cause. My heart has 
been deeply wounded by the cruelty of my relations, and by 
the loss of my beloved husband. But I have since found more 
consolation and more real happiness with you in these humble 
huts, than all the wealth of my family could now lead me to 
expect in my own country.” 

At this soothing language every eye overflowed with tears 
of .delight. Paul, pressing Madame de la Tour in his arms, 
exclaimed,—“ Neither will I leave you ! I will not go to the 
Indies. We will all labor for you, dear mamma; and you 
shall never feel any want with us.” But of the whole society, 
the person who displayed the least transport, and who probably 
felt the most, was Virginia : and during the remainder of the 
day, the gentle gayety which flowed from her heart, and proved 
that her peace of mind was restored, completed the general 
satisfaction. 

At sunrise the next day, just as they had concluded offering 
up, as usual, their morning prayer before breakfast, Domingo 
came to inform them that a gentleman on horseback, followed 
by two slaves, was coming towards the plantation. It was 
Monsieur de la Bourdonnais. He entered the cottage, where 
he found the family at breakfast. Virginia had prepared, 
according to the custom of the country, coffee, and rice boiled 
in water. To these she had added hot yams, and fresh plan¬ 
tains. The leaves of the plantain-tree supplied the want of 
table-linen ; and calabash shells, split in two, served for cups. 
The governor exhibited, at first, some astonishment at the 
homeliness of the dwelling; then, addressing himself to Ma¬ 
dame de la Tour, he observed, that although public affairs 
drew his attention too much from the concerns of individuals, 
she had many claims on his good offices. “You have an aunt 
at Paris, madam,” he added, “ a women of quality, and im¬ 
mensely rich, who expects that you will hasten to see her, and 
who means to bestow upon you her whole fortune.” Madame 
de la Tour replied, that the state of her health would not per- 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


57 

tnit her to undertake so long a voyage. " At least,” resumed 
Monsieur de la Bourdonnais, “ you cannot without injustice, 
deprive this amiable young lady, your daughter, of so noble an 
inheritance. I will not conceal from you, that your aunt has 
made use of her influence to secure your daughter being sent to 
her; and that I have received official letters, in which I am 
ordered to exert my authority, if necessary, to that effect. But 
as I only wish to employ my power for the purpose of rendering 
the inhabitants of this country happy, I expect from your good 
sense the voluntary sacrifice of a few years, upon which your 
daughter’s establishment in the world, and the welfare of your 
whole life depends. Wherefore do we come to these islands ? 
Is it not to acquire a fortune ? And will it not be more 
agreeable to return and find it in your own country ? ” 

He then took a large bag of piastres from one of his slaves, 
and placed it upon the table. “This sum,” he continued, “ is 
allotted by your aunt to defray the outlay necessary for the 
equipment of the young lady for her voyage.” Gently re¬ 
proaching Madame de la Tour for not having had recourse to 
him in her difficulties, he extolled at the same time her noble 
fortitude. Upon this Paul said to the governor,—“ My mother 
did apply to you, Sir, and you received her ill.”—“ Have you 
another child, madam ? ” said Monsieur de la Bourdonnais to 
Madame de la Tour. “ No, Sir,” she replied ; “ this is the 
son of my friend ; but he and Virginia 'are equally dear to us, 
and we mutually consider them both as our own children.” 
“Young man,” said the governor to Paul, “ when you have 
acquired a little more experience of the world, you will know 
that it is the misfortune of people in place to be deceived, and 
bestow, in consequence, upon intriguing vice, that which they 
would wish to give to modest merit.” 

Mousieur de la Bourdonnais, at the request of Madame de 
la Tour, placed himself next to her at table, and breakfasted after 
the manner of the Creoles, upon coffee, mixed with rice boiled 
in water. He was delighted with the order and cleanliness 
which prevailed in the little cottage, the harmony of the two 
interesting families, and the zeal of their old servants. “ Here,” 
he exclaimed, “ I discern only wooden furniture: but I find 
serene countenances and hearts of gold.” Paul, enchanted 
with the affability of the governor, said to him,—“ I wish to be 
your friend: for you are a good man.” Monsieur de la 
Bourdonnais received with pleasure this insular compliment, 
and, taking Paul by the hand, assured him he might rely upon his 
friendship. 


58 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


After breakfast, he took Madame de la Tour aside and 
informed her that an opportunity would soon offer itself of 
sending her daughter to France, in a ship which was going to 
sail in a short time ; that he would put her under the charge of 
a lady, one of the passengers, who was a relation of his own ; 
and that she must not think of renouncing an immense fortune, 
on account of the pain of being separated from her daughter 
for a brief interval. “ Your aunt,” he added, “ cannot live more 
than two years; of this I am assured by her friends. Think 
of it seriously. Fortune does not visit us every day. Consult 
your friends. I am sure that every person of good sense will 
be of my opinion.” She answered, “ that, as she desired no 
other happiness henceforth in the world than in promoting that 
of her daughter, she hoped to be allowed to leave her departure 
for France entirely to her own inclination.” 

Madame de la Tour was not sorry to find an opportunity of 
separating Paul and Virginia for a short time, and provide by 
this means, for their mutual felicity at a future period. She 
took her daughter aside, and said to her,—“ My dear child, 
our servants are now old. Paul is still very young, Margaret 
is advanced in years, and I am already infirm. If I should 
die what would become of you, without fortune, in the midst of 
these deserts ? You would then be left alone, without any 
person who could afford you much assistance, and would be 
obliged to labor without ceasing, as a hired servant, in order 
to support your wretched existence. This idea overcomes me 
with sorrow.” Virginia answered,—“ God has appointed us 
to labor, and to bless him every day. Up to this time he has 
never forsaken us, and he never will forsake us in time to 
come. His providence watches most especially over the un¬ 
fortunate. You have told me this very often, my dear mother! 
I cannot resolve to leave you.” Madame de la Tour replied, 
with much emotion,—“ I have no other aim than to render you 
happy, and to marry you one day to Paul, who is not really 
your brother. Remember then that his fortune depends upon 
you.” 

A young girl who is in love believes that every one else is 
ignorant of her passion ; she throws over her eyes the veil 
with which she covers the feelings of her heart; bu-t when it is 
once lifted by a friendly hand, the hidden sorrows of her at¬ 
tachment escape as through a newly-opened barrier, and the 
sweet outpourin-gs of unrestrained confidence succeed to her 
former mystery and reserve. Virginia, deeply affected by this 
new proof of her mother’s tenderness, related to her the cruel 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


59 

struggles she had undergone, of which heaven alone had been 
witness; she saw, she said, the hand of Providence in the as¬ 
sistance of an affectionate mother, who approved of her at¬ 
tachment ; and would guide her by her counsels ; and as she 
was now strengthened by such support, every consideration led 
her to remain with her mother, without anxiety for the present, 
and without apprehension for the future. 

Madame de la Tour, perceiving that this confidential con¬ 
versation had produced an effect altogether different from that 
which she expected, said,—“ My dear child, I do not wish to 
constrain you ; think over it at leisure, but conceal your affec¬ 
tion from Paul. It is better not to let a man know that the 
heart of his mistress is gained.” 

Virginia and her mother were sitting together by themselves 
the same evening, when a tall man, dressed in a blue cossock, 
entered them cottage. He was a missionary priest and the 
confessor of ’Madame de la Tour and her daughter, who had 
now been sent them by the governor. “ My children,” he ex¬ 
claimed as he entered, “God be praised! you are now rich. 
You can now attend to the kind suggestions of your benevolent 
hearts, and do good to the poor. I know what Monsieur de la 
Bourdonnais has said to you, and what you have said in reply. 
Your health, dear madam, obliges you to remain here; but 
you, young lady, are without excuse. We must obey the direc¬ 
tion of Providence: and we must also obey our aged relations, 
even when they are unjust. A sacrifice is required of you; 
but it is the will of God. Our Lord devoted himself for you ; 
and you in imitation of his example, must give up something 
for the welfare of your family. Your voyage to France will 
end happily. You will surely consent to go, my dear young 
lady. 

Virginia, with downcast eyes, answered, trembling, “ If it 
is the command of God, I will not presume to oppose it. Let 
the will of God be done ! ” As she uttered these words, she 

wept. 

The priest went away, in order to inform the governor of 
the success of his mission. In the meantime Madame de la 
Tour sent Domingo to request me to come to her, that she 
might consult me respecting Virginia’s departure. I was not 
at all of opinion that she ought to go. I consider it as a fixed 
principle of happiness, that we ought to prefer the advantages 
of nature to those of fortune, and never go in search of that 
at a distance, which we may find at home,—in our own bosoms. 
But what could be expected from my advice, in opposition to 


6o 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


the illusions of a splendid fortune ?—or from my simple reason¬ 
ing, when in competition with the prejudices of the world, and 
an authority held sacred by Madame de la Tour ? This lady 
indeed had only consulted me out of politeness; she had 
ceased to deliberate since she had heard the decision of her 
confessor. Margaret herself, who, notwithstanding the advan¬ 
tages she expected for her son from the possession of Virginia’s 
fortune, had hitherto opposed her departure, made no further 
objections. As for Paul, in ignorance of what had been deter¬ 
mined, but alarmed at the secret conversations which Virginia 
had been holding with her mother, he abandoned himself to 
melancholy. “ They are plotting something against me,” cried 
he, “ for they conceal everything from me.” 

A report having in the meantime been spread in the island 
that fortune had visited these rocks, merchants of every de¬ 
scription were seen climbing their steep ascent. Now, for the 
first time, were seen displayed in these humble huts the richest 
stuffs of India; the fine dimity of Gondelore ; the handker¬ 
chiefs of Pellicate and Masulipatan ; the plain, striped, and 
embroidered muslins of Dacca, so beautifully transparent: the 
delicately white cottons of Surat, and linens of all colors. 
They also brought with them the gorgeous silks of China, 
satin damasks, some white, and others grass-green and bright 
red; pink taffetas, with a profusion of satins and gauze of 
Tonquin, both plain and decorated with flowers ;.soft pekitis, 
downy as cloth ; with white and yellow nankeens, and the cali¬ 
coes of Madagascar. 

Madame de la Tour wished her daughter to purchase 
whatever she liked; she only examined the goods, and in¬ 
quired the price, to take care that the dealers did not cheat 
her. Virginia made choice of everything she thought would 
be useful or agreeable to her mother, or to Margaret and her 
son. “ This,” said she, “ will be wanted for furnishing the 
cottage, and that will be very useful to Mary and Domingo.” 
In short, the bag of piastres was almost emptied before she 
even began to consider her own wants; and she was obliged to 
receive back for her own use a share of the presents which she 
had distributed among the family circle. 

Paul, overcome with sorrow at the sight of these gifts of 
fortune, which he felt were a presage of Virginia’s departure, 
came a few days after to my dwelling. With an air of deep 
despondency he said to me,—“ My sister is going away; she is 
already making preparations for her voyage. I conjure you to 
come and exert your influence over her mother and mine, in 


PAUL AMD VIRGINIA . 


6l 

order to detain her here.” I could not refuse the young man's 
solicitations, although well convinced that my representations 
would be unavailing. 

Virginia had ever appeared to me charming when clad in 
the coarse cloth of Bengal, with a red handkerchief tied around 
her head: you may therefore imagine how much her beauty 
was increased, when she was attired in the graceful and elegant 
costume worn by the ladies of this country! She had on a 
white muslin dress, lined with pink taffeta. Her somewhat 
tall and slender figure was shone to advantage in her new 
attire, and the simple arrangement of her hair accorded ad¬ 
mirably with the form of her head. Her fine blue eyes were 
filled with an expression of melancholy; and the struggles of 
passion, with which her heart was agitated, imparted a flush to 
her cheek, and to her voice a tone of deep emotion. The 
contrast between her pensive look and her gay habiliments 
rendered her more interesting then ever, nor was it possible to 
see or hear her unmoved. Paul became more and more 
melancholy; and at length Margaret, distressed at the situa¬ 
tion of her son, took him aside, and said to him,—“ Why, my 
dear child, will you cherish vain hopes, which will only render 
your disappointment more bitter ? It is time for me to make 
known to you the secret of your life and of mine. Made¬ 
moiselle de la Tour belongs, by her mother's side, to a rich 
and noble family, while you are but the son of a poor peasant 
girl ; and what is worse you are illegitimate.” 

Paul, who had never heard this last expression before, 
inquired with eagerness its meaning. His mother replied, “I 
was not married to your father. When I was a girl, seduced 
by love, I was guilty of a weakness of which you are the off¬ 
spring. The consequence of my fault is, that you are deprived 
of the protection of a father's family, and by my* flight from 
home you have also lost that of your mother’s. Unfortunate 
child ! you have no relation in the world but me ! ”—and she 
shed a flood of tears. Paul, pressing her in his arms, ex¬ 
claimed, “ Oh, my dear mother! since I have no relation in' 
the world but you, I will love you all the more. But what a 
secret have you just disclosed to me! I now see the reason 
why Mademoiselle de la Tour has estranged herself so much 
from me for the last two months, and why she has determined 
to go to France. Ah ! I perceive too well that she despises 
me! ” 

The hour of supper being arrived, we gathered round the 
table ; but the different sensations with which we were agitated 


C2 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


left us little inclination to eat, and the meal, if such it may be 
called, passed in silence. Virginia was the first to rise ; she 
went out, and seated herself on the very spot where we now 
are. Paul hastened after her, and sat down by her side. Both 
of them, for some time, kept a profound silence. It was one 
of those delicious nights which are so common between the 
tropics, and to the beauty of which no pencil can do justice. 
The moon appeared in the midst of the firmament, surrounded 
by a curtain of clouds, which was gradually unfolded by her 
beams. Her light insensibly spread itself over the mountains 
of the island, and their distant peaks glistened with a silvery 
green. The winds were perfectly still. We heard among the 
woods, at the bottom of the valleys, and on the summits of the 
rocks, the piping cries and the soft notes of the birds, wan¬ 
toning in their nests, and rejoicing in the brightness of the 
night and the serenity of the atmosphere. The hum of insects 
was heard in the grass. The stars sparkled in the heavens, 
and their lucid orbs were reflected, in trembling sparkles, from 
the tranquil bosom of the ocean. Virginia’s eye wandered 
distractedly over its vast and gloomy horizon, distinguishable 
from the shore of the island only by the red fires in the fish¬ 
ing boats. She perceived at the entrance of the harbor a 
light and a shadow ; these were the watchlight and the hull of 
the vessel in which she was to embark for Europe, and which, 
all ready for sea, lay at anchor, waiting for a breeze. Affected 
at this sight, she turned away her head, in order to hide her 
tears from Paul. 

Madame de la Tour, Margaret, and I, were seated at a 
little distance, beneath the plantain trees; and, owing to the 
stillness of the night, we distinctly heard their conversation, 
which I have not forgotten. 

Paul said to her,—“ You are going away from us, they tell 
me, in three days. You do not fear then to encounter the 
danger of the sea, at the sight of which you are so much terri¬ 
fied ? ” “ I must perform my duty,” answered Virginia, “ by 

obeying my parent.” “You leave us,” resumed Paul^“for a 
distant relation, whom you have never seen.” “ Alas ! ” cried 
Virginia, “ I would have remained here my whole life, but my 
mother would not have it so. My confessor, too, told me it 
was the will of God that I should go, and that life was a scene 
of trials !—and Oh ! this is indeed a severe one.” 

“ What! ” exclaimed Paul, “you could find so many reasons 
for going, and not one for remaining here ! Ah ! there is one 
reason for your departure that you have not mentioned. Riches 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


63 

bave great attractions. You will soon find in the new world to 
which you are going, another, to whom you will give the 
name of brother, which you bestow on me no more. You will 
choose that brother from amongst persons who are worthy of 
you by their birth, and by a fortune which I have not to offer. 
But where can you go to be happier ? On what shore will you 
land, and find it dearer to you than the spot which gave you 
birth ?—and where will you form around you a society more 
delightful to you than this, by which you are so much beloved ? 
How will you bear to live without your mother’s caresses, to 
which you are so much accustomed ? What will become of 
her, already advanced in years, when she no longer sees you at 
her side at table, in the house, in the walks, where she used to 
lean upon you ? What will become of my mother, who loves 
you with the same affection ? What shall I say to comfort 
them when I see them weeping for your absence ? Cruel Vir¬ 
ginia ! I say nothing to you of myself; but what will become 
of me, when in the morning I shall no more see you ; when the 
evening will come, and not reunite us ?—when I shall gaze on 
these two palm trees, planted at our birth, and so long the 
witnesses of our mutual friendship? Ah! since your lot is 
changed,—since you seek in a far country other possessions 
than the fruits of my labor, let me go with you in the vessel in 
which you are about to embark. I will sustain your spirits in 
the midst of those tempests which terrify you so much even 
on shore. I will lay my head upon your bosom : I will warm 
your heart upon my own ; and in France, where you are going 
in search of fortune and of grandeur, I will wait upon you as 
your slave. Happy only in your happiness, you will find me, 
in those palaces where I shall see you receiving the homage 
and adoration of all, rich and noble enough to make you the 
greatest of all sacrifices, by dying at your feet.” 

The violence of his emotions stopped his utterance, and we 
then heard Virginia, who, in a voice broken by sobs, uttered 
these words :—“ It is for you that I go,—for you whom I see 
tired to death every day by the labor of sustaining two helpless 
families. If I have accepted this opportunity of becoming 
rich, it is only to return a thousand-fold the good which you 
have done us. Can any fortune be equal to your friendship ? 
Why do you talk about your birth ? Ah ! if it were possible 
for me still to have a brother, should I make choice of any 
other than you ? Oh, Paul, Paul ! you are far dearer to me 
than a brother ! How much has it cost me to repulse you 
from me! Help me to tear myself from what I value more 


PA&L AND VIRGINIA. 


64 

than existence, till Heaven shall bless our union. But I will 
stay or go,—I will live or die,—dispose of me as you will. Un¬ 
happy that I am ! I could have repelled your caresses ; but I 
cannot support your affliction.” 

At these words Paul seized her in his arms, and, holding 
her pressed close to his bosom, in a piercing tone, “ I will go 
with her,—nothing shall ever part us.” We all ran towards 
him ; and Madame de la Tour said to him, “ My son, if you go,, 
what will become of us ! ” 

He, trembling, repeated after her the words,—“ My son !—• 
my son! You my mother!” cried he; “you, who would 
separate the brother from the sister! We have both been 
nourished at your bosom; we have both been reared upon 
your knees ; we have learnt of you to love one another; we have 
said so a thousand times; and now you would separate her 
from me!—you would send her to Europe, that inhospitable 
country which refused you an asylum, and to relations by whom 
you yourself were abandoned. You will tell me that I have no 
right over her, and that she is not my sister. She is everything 
to me ;—my riches, my birth, my family,—all that I have ! I 
know no other. YVe have had but one roof,—one cradle,— 
and we will have but one grave! If she goes, I will follow 
her. The governor will prevent me! Will he prevent me 
from flinging myself into the sea ?—will he prevent me from 
following her by swimming ? The sea cannot be more fatal to 
me than the land. Since I cannot live with her, at least I will 
die before her eyes, far from you. Inhuman mother!—woman 
•without compassion!—may the ocean, to which you trust her, 
restore her to you no more! May the waves, rolling back our 
bodies amid the shingles of this beach, give you, in the loss of 
your two children, an eternal subject of remorse ! ” 

At these words, I seized him in my arms, for despair had 
deprived him of reason. His eyes sparkled with fire, the per¬ 
spiration fell in great drops from his face; his knees trembled, 
and I felt his heart beat violently against his burning bosom. 

Virginia, alarmed, said to him,—“ Oh, my dear Paul, I call 
to witness the pleasures of our early age, your griefs and my 
own, and everything that can forever bind two unfortunate 
beings to each other, that if I remain at home, I will live but 
for you ; that if I go, I will one day return to be yours. I call 
you all to witness ;—you who have reared me from my infancy, 
who dispose of my life, and who see my tears. I swear by that 
Heaven which hears me, by the sea which I am going to pass, 
by the air I breath, and which I never sullied by a falsehood.” 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


65 

As the sun softens and precipitates an icy rock from the 
summit of one of the Appenines, so the impetuous passions of 
the young man were subdued by the voice of her he loved. 
He bent his head, and a torrent of tears fell from his eyes. 
His mother, mingling her tears with his, held him in her arms, 
but was unable to speak. Madame de la Tour, half distracted, 
said to me, “ I can bear this no longer. My heart is quite 
broken. This unfortunate voyage shall not take place. Do 
take my son home with you. Not one of us has had any rest 
the whole week.” 

I said to Paul, “ My dear friend, your sister shall remain 
here. To-morrow we will talk to the governor about it; leave 
your family to take some rest, and come and pass the night 
with me. It is late ; it is midnight; the southern cross is just 
above the horizon.” 

He suffered himself to be led away in silence; and, after a 
night of great agitation, he arose at break of day, and returned 
home. 

But why should I continue any longer to you the recital of 
this history? There is but one aspect of human existence 
which we can ever contemplate with pleasure. Like the globe 
upon which we revolve, the fleeting course of life is but a day; 
and if one part of that day be visited by light, the other is 
thrown into darkness. 

“ My father,” I answered, “ finish, 1 conjure you, the history 
which you have begun in a manner so interesting. If the im¬ 
ages of happiness are the most pleasing, those of misfortune 
are the more instructive. Tell me what became of the unhappy 
young man.” 

The first object beheld by Paul in his way home was the 
negro woman Mary, who, mounted on a rock, was earnestly 
looking towards the sea. As soon as he perceived her, he 
called to her from a distance,—“ Where is Virginia ? ” Mary 
turned her head towards her young master, and began to weep. 
Paul, distracted, retracing his steps, ran to the harbor. He was 
informed, that Virginia had embarked at the break of day, and 
that the vessel had immediately set sail, and was now out of 
sight. He instantly returned to the plantation, which he crossed 
without uttering a word. 

Quite perpendicular as appears the walls of rocks behind us, 
those green platforms which separate their summits are so many 
stages, by means of which you may reach, through some difficult 
paths, that cone of sloping and inaccessible rocks, which is 
called The Thumb. At the foot of that cone is an extended 


66 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


slope of ground, covered with lofty trees, and so steep and ele¬ 
vated that it looks like a forest in the air, surrounded by tre¬ 
mendous precipices. The clouds, which are constantly attracted 
round the summit of The Thumb, supply innumerable rivulets, 
which fall to so great a depth in the valley situated on the 
other side of the mountain, that from this elevated point the 
sound of their cataracts cannot be heard. From that spot you 
can discern a considerable part of the island, diversified by pre¬ 
cipices and mountain peaks, and amongst others, Peter-Booth, 
and the Three Breasts, with their valleys full of woods. You 
also command an extensive view of the ocean, and can even 
perceive the Isle of Bourbon, forty leagues to the westward. 
From the summit of that stupendous pile of rocks Paul caught 
sight of the vessel which was bearing away Virginia, and which 
now, ten leagues out at sea, appeared like a black spot in the 
midst of the ocean. He remained a great part of the day with 
his eyes fixed upon this object: when it had disappeared, he 
still fancied he beheld it; and when, at length, the traces which 
clung to his imagination were lost in the mists of the horizon, 
he seated himself on that wild point, forever beaten by the 
winds, which never cease to agitate the tops of the cabbage and 
gum-trees, and the hoarse and moaning murmurs of which, sim¬ 
ilar to the distant sound of organs, inspire a profound melan¬ 
choly. On this spot I found him, his head reclining on the 
rock, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. I had followed him 
from the earliest dawn, and, after much importunity, I prevailed 
on him to descend from the heights, and return to his family. 
I went home with him, where the first impulse of his mind, on 
seeing Madame de la Tour, was to reproach her bitterly for 
having deceived him. She told us that a favorable wind having 
sprung up at three o’clock in the morning, and the vessel being 
ready to sail, the governor, attended by some of his staff and 
the missionary, had come with a palanquin to fetch her daugh¬ 
ter; and that, notwithstanding Virginia’s objections, her own 
tears and entreaties, and the lamentations of Margaret, every¬ 
body exclaiming all the time that it was for the general welfare, 
they had carried her away almost dying. “At least,” cried 
Paul, “ if I had bid her farewell, I should now be more calm. 
I would have said to her,—‘ Virginia, if, during the time we 
have lived together, one word may have escaped me which has 
offended you, before you leave me forever, tell me that you for¬ 
give me.’ I would have said to her,—‘ Since I am destined to 
see you no more, farewell, my dear Virginia, farewell! Live 
far from me contented and happy! ’ ” When he saw that his 


PAUL A ATI) VlkGINTA. 


6 7 

Mother and Madame de la Tour were weeping,—“ You must 
now,” said he, “ seek some other hand to wipe away your tears;” 
and then, rushing out of the house, and groaning aloud, he 
wandered up and down the plantation. He hovered in particu¬ 
lar about those spots which had been most endearing to Vir¬ 
ginia. He said to the goats, and their little ones, which followed 
him, bleating,—“ What do you want of me ? You will see with 
me no more her who used to feed you with her own hand.” 
He went to the bower called Virginia’s Resting-place, and, as 
the birds flew around him, exclaimed, “Poor birds ! you will fly 
no more to meet her who cherished you! ”—and observing 
Fidele running backwards and forwards in search of her, he 
heaved a deep sigh, and cried,—“ Ah ! you will never find her 
again.” At length he went and seated himself upon a rock 
where he had conversed with her the preceding evening; and 
at the sight of the ocean upon which he had seen the vessel 
disappear which had born her away, his heart overflowed with 
anguish, and he w T ept bitterly. 

We continually watched his movements, apprehensive of 
some.fatal consequence from the violent agitation of his mind. 
His mother and Madame de la Tour conjured him*, in the most 
tender manner, not to increase their affliction by his despair. 
At length the latter soothed his mind by lavishing upon him 
epithets calculated to awaken his hopes,—calling him her son, 
her dear son, her son-in-law, whom she destined for her daugh¬ 
ter. She persuaded him to return home, and to take some 
food. He seated himself next to the place which used to be 
occupied by the companion of his childhood; and, as if she 
had still been present, he spoke to her, and made as though he 
would offer her whatever he knew was most agreeable to her 
taste ; then, starting from this dream of fancy, he began to 
weep. For some days he employed himself in gathering every 
thing which had belonged to Virginia, the last nosegays she had 
worn, the cocoa-shell from which she used to drink; and after 
kissing a thousand times these relics of his beloved, to him the 

i most precious treasures which the world contained, he hid them 
in his bosom. Amber does not shed so sweet a perfume as the 
veriest trifles touched by those we love. At length, perceiv¬ 
ing that the indulgence of his grief increased that of his mother 
and Madame de la Tour, and that the wants of the family 
demanded continual labor, he began, with the assistance of 
Domingo, to repair the damage done to the garden. 

But, soon after, this young man, hitherto indifferent as a 
Creole to everything that was passing in the world, begged of me 



6S 


PAUL AND VIRGTNtA. 


to teach him to read and write, in order that we might corre¬ 
spond with Virginia. He afterwards wished to obtain a knowl¬ 
edge of geography, that he might form some idea of the coun¬ 
try where she would disembark ; and of history, that he might 
know something of the manners of the society in which she 
would be placed. The powerful sentiment of love, which 
directed his present studies, had already instructed him in agri¬ 
culture, and in the art of laying out grounds with advantage 
and beauty. It must be admitted, that to the fond dreams of 
this restless and ardent passion, mankind are indebted for 
most of the arts and sciences, while its disappointments have 
given birth to philosophy, which teaches»us to bear up under 
misfortune. Love, thus, the general link of all beings, becomes 
the great spring of society, by inciting us to knowledge as well 
as to pleasure. 

Paul found little satisfaction in the study of geography, 
which, instead of describing the natural history of each country, 
gave only a view of its political divisions and boundaries. His¬ 
tory, and especially modern history, interested him little more. 
He there saw only general and periodical evils, the causes of 
which he could not discover; wars without either motive or 
reason ; uninteresting intrigues ; with nations destitute of prin¬ 
ciple, and princes void of humanity. To this branch of read¬ 
ing he preferred romances, which, being chiefly occupied by 
the feelings and concerns of men, sometimes represented situa¬ 
tions similar to his own. Thus, no book gave him so much 
pleasure as Telemachus, from the pictures it draws of pastoral 
life, and of the passions which are most natural to the human 
breast. He read aloud to his mother and Madame de la Tour 
those parts which affected him most sensibly ; but sometimes, 
touched by the most tender remembrances, his emotion would 
choke his utterance, and his eyes be filled with tears. He 
fancied he had found in Virginia the dignity and wisdom of 
Antiope, united to the misfortunes and the tenderness of 
Eucharis. With very different sensations he perused our fash¬ 
ionable novels, filled with licentious morals and maxims, and 
when he was informed that these works drew a tolerably faith¬ 
ful picture of European society, he trembled, and not without 
some appearance of reason, lest Virginia should become cor¬ 
rupted by it, and forget him. 

More than a year and a half, indeed, passed away before 
Madame de la Tour received any tidings of her aunt or her 
daughter. During that period she only accidently heard that 
Virginia had safely arrived in France. At length, however, a 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


69 

vessel which stopped here in its way to the Indies brought a 
packet to Madame de la Tour, and a letter written by Virginia’s 
own hand. Although this amiable and considerate girl had 
written in a guarded manner that she might not wound her 
mother’s feelings, it appeared evident enough that she was un¬ 
happy. The letter painted so naturally her situation and her 
character, that I have retained it almost word for word. 

“My dear and beloved mother, 

“ I have already sent you several letters, written by my own 
hand, but having received no answer, I am afraid they have 
not reached you. I have better hopes for this, from the means 
I have now gained of sending you tidings of myself, and of 
hearing from you. 

“ I have shed many tears since our separation, I who never 
used to weep, but for the misfortunes of others ! My aunt was 
much astonished, when, having, upon my arrival, inquired what 
accomplishments I possessed, I told her that I could neither 
read nor write. She asked me what then I had learnt, since I 
came into the world ; and when I answered that I had been 
taught to take care of the household affairs, and to obey your 
will, she told me that I had received the education of a servant. 
The next day she placed me as a boarder in a great abbey near 
Paris, where I have masters of all kinds, who teach me among 
other things, history, geography, grammar, mathematics, and 
riding on horseback. But I have so little capacity for all these 
sciences, that I fear I shall make but small progress with my 
masters. I feel that I am a very poor creature, with very little 
ability to learn what they teach. My aunt’s kindness, however, 
does not decrease. She gives me new dresses every season ; 
and she has placed two waiting women with me, who are 
dressed like fine ladies. She has made me take the title of 
countess ; but has obliged me to renounce the name of La Tour, 
which is as dear to me as it is to you, from all you have told me 
of the sufferings my father endured in order to marry you. She 
has given me in place of your name that of your family, which 
is also dear to me, because it was your name when a girl. See¬ 
ing myself in so splendid a situation, I implored her to let me 
send you something to assist you. But how shall I repeat her 
answer! Yet you have desired me always to tell you the truth. 
She told me then that a little would be of no use to you, and 
that a great deal would only encumber you in the simple life 
you led. As you know I could not write, I endeavored upon 
my arrival, to send you tidings of myself by another hand ; but ? 

zi 




PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


70 

finding no person here in whom I could place confidence, I 
applied night and day to learn to read and write, and Heaven, 
who saw my motive for learning, no doubt assisted my en¬ 
deavors, for I succeeded in both for a short time. I entrusted 
my first letters to some of the ladies here, who, I have reason 
to think, carried them to my aunt. This time I have recourse 
to a boarder, who is my friend. I send you her direction, by 
means of which I shall receive your answer. My aunt has for¬ 
bid me holding any correspondence whatever, with any one, 
lest, she says, it should occasion an obstacle to the great views 
she has for my advantage. No person is allowed to see me at 
the grate but herself, and an old nobleman, one of her friends, 
who, she says, is much pleased with me. I am sure I am not at 
all so with him, nor should I, even if it were possible for me to 
be pleased with any one at present. 

“I live in all the splendor of affluence, and have not a 
soul at my disposal. They say I might make an improper use 
of money. Even my clothes belong to my femmes de chambre, 
who quarrel about them before I have left them off. In the 
midst of riches I am poorer than when I lived with you; for I 
have nothing to give away. When I found that the great accom¬ 
plishments they taught me would not procure me the power of 
doing the smallest good, I had recourse to my needle, of which 
happily you had taught me the use. I send several pairs of 
stockings of my own making foryou and my mamma Margaret, 
a cap for Domingo, and one of my red handkerchiefs for Mary. 
I also send with this packet some kernels, and seeds of various 
kinds of fruits which I gathered in the abbey park during my 
hours of recreation. I have also sent a few seeds of violets, 
daisies, buttercups, poppies and scabious, which I picked up 
in the fields. There are much more beautiful flowers in the 
meadows of this country than in ours, but nobody cares for 
them. I am sure that you and my mamma Margaret will be 
better pleased with this bag of seeds, than you were with the 
bag of piastres, which was the cause of our separation and of my 
tears. It will give me great delight if you should one day see 
apple-trees growing by the side of our plantains, and elms 
blending their foliage with that of our cocoa trees. You will 
fancy yourself in Normandy, which you love so much. 

“You desired me to relate to you my joys and my griefs. 
I have no joys far from you. As for my griefs, I endeavor to 
soothe them by reflecting that I am in the situation in which 
it was the will of God that you should place me. But my 
greatest affliction is, that no one here speaks to me of you, and 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


7 * 

that I cannot speak of you to any one. My femmes de cham- 
bre, or rather those of my aunt, for they belong more to her 
than to me, told me the other day, when I wished to turn the 
conversation upon the objects most dear to me : ‘ Remember, 
mademoiselle, that you are a French woman, and must forget 
that land of savages.’ Ah ! sooner will 1 forget myself, than 
forget the spot on which I was born and where you dwell! It 
is this country which is to me a land of savages, for I live 
alone, having no one to whom I can impart those feelings of 
tenderness for you which I shall bear with me to the grave. I 
am, 

“ My dearest and beloved mother, 

' “Your affectionate and dutiful daughter, 

“Virginie de La Tour.” 

“ I recommend to your goodness Mary and Domingo, who 
took so much care of my infancy; caress Fidele for me, who 
found me in the wood.” 

Paul was astonished that Virginia had not said one word 
of him,—she, who had not forgotten even the house-dog. But 
he w r as not aware that, however long a woman’s letter may be, 
she never fails to leave her dearest sentiments for the end. 

In a postscript, Virginia particularly recommended to Paul’s 
attention two kinds of seed,—those of the violet and the scabi¬ 
ous. She gave him some instructions upon the natural charac¬ 
ters of these flowers, and the spots most proper for their culti¬ 
vation. “ The violet,” she said, “ produces a little flower of a 
dark purple color, which delights to conceal itself beneath the 
bushes; but it is soon discovered by its wide-spreading perfume.” 
She desired that these seeds might be sown by the border of 
the fountain, at the foot of her cocoa-tree. “ The scabious,” 
she added, “ produces a beautiful flower of a pale blue, and a 
black ground spotted with white. You might fancy it was in 
mourning; and for this reason it is also called the widow’s 
flower. It grows best in bleak spots, beaten by the winds.” 
She begged him to sow this upon the rock where she had 
spoken to him at night for the last time, and that, in remem¬ 
brance of her, he would henceforth give it the name of the 
Rock of Adieus. 

She had put these seeds into a little purse, the tissue of 
which was exceedingly simple ; but which appeared above all 
price to Paul, when he saw ©n it a P and a V entwined to¬ 
gether, and knew that the beautiful hair which formed the 
cypher was the hair ol Virginia, 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


V 

The whole family listened with tears to the reading of the 
letter of this amiable and virtuous girl. Her mother answered 
it in the name of the little society, desiring her to remain or re¬ 
turn as she thought proper : and assuring her, that happiness 
had left their dwelling since her departure, and that, for her¬ 
self, she was inconsolable. 

Paul also sent her a very long letter, in which he assured 
her that he would arrange the garden in a manner agreeable to 
her taste, and mingle together in it the plants of Europe with 
those of Africa, as she had blended their initials together in 
her work. He sent her some fruit from the cocoa-trees of the 
fountain, now arrived at maturity; telling her, that he would 
not add any of the other productions of the island, that the 
desire of seeing them again might hasten her return. He con¬ 
jured her to comply as soon as possible with the ardent 
wishes of her family, and above all, with his own, since he 
could never hereafter taste happiness away from her. 

Paul sowed with a careful hand the European seeds, par¬ 
ticularly the violet and the scabious, the flowers of which 
seemed to bear some analogy to the character and present 
situation of Virginia, by whom they had been so especially 
recommended ; but either they were dried up in the voyage, or 
the climate of this part of the world is unfavorable to their 
growth, for a very small number of them even came up, and 
not one arrived at full perfection. 

In the mean time, envy, which ever comes to embitter huma» 
happiness, particularly in the French colonies, spread some 
reports in the island which gave Paul much uneasiness. The 
passengers in the vessel which brought Virginia’s letter, as¬ 
serted that she was upon the point of being married, and 
named the nobleman of the court to whom she was engaged. 
Some even went so far as to declare that the union had already 
taken place, and that they tiiemselves had witnessed the cere¬ 
mony. Paul at first despised the report, brought by a mer¬ 
chant vessel, as he knew that they often spread erroneous 
intelligence in their passage ; but some of the inhabitants of 
the island, with malignant pity, affecting to bewail the event, 
he was soon led to attach some degree of belief to this cruel 
intelligence. Besides, in some of the novels he had lately 
react, he had seen that perfidy was treated as a subject of 
pleasantry; and knowing that these books contained pretty 
faithful representations of European manners, he feared that 
the heart of Virginia was corrupted, and had forgotten its 
former engagements. Thus his new acquirements had already 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


1\ 

only served to render him more miserable; and his apprehen- 
sions were much increased by the circumstance, that though 
several ships touched here from Europe,-within the six months 
immediately following the arrival of her letter, not one of them 
brought any tidings of Virginia. 

This unfortunate young man, with a heart torn by the most 
cruel agitation, often came to visit me, in the hope of confirm¬ 
ing or banishing his uneasiness, by my experience of the world. 

I live, as I have already told you, a league and a half from 
this point, upon the banks of a little river which glides along 
the Sloping Mountain: there I lead a solitary life, without 
wife, children, or slaves. 

After having enjoyed, and lost the rare felicity of living 
with a congenial mind, the state of life which appears the least 
wretched is doubtless that of solitude. Every man who has 
much cause of complaint against his fellow-creatures seeks to 
be alone. It is also remarkable that all those nations which 
have been brought to wretchedness by their opinions, their 
manners, or their forms of government, have produced numer¬ 
ous classes of citizens altogether devoted to solitude and 
celibacy. Such were the Egyptians in their decline, and the 
Greeks of the Lower Empire; and such in our days are the 
Indians, the Chinese, the modern Greeks, the Italians, and the 
greater part of the eastern and southern nations of Europe. 
Solitude, by removing men from the miseries which follow in 
the train of social intercourse, brings them in some degree back 
to the unsophisticated enjoyment of nature. In the midst of 
modern society, broken up by innumerable prejudices, the 
mind is in a constant turmoil of agitation. It is incessantly 
revolving in itself a thousand tumultuous and contradictory 
opinions, by which the members of an ambitious and miserable 
circle seek to raise themselves above each other. But in soli¬ 
tude the soul lays aside the morbid illusions which troubled 
her, and resumes the pure consciousness of herself, of nature, 
and of its Author, as the mudd} water of a torrent which has 
ravaged the plains, coming to rest, and diffusing itself over 
some low grounds out of its course, deposits there the slime it 
has taken up, and, resuming its wonted transparency, reflects, 
with its own shores, the verdure of the earth and the light of 
heaven. Thus does solitude recruit the powers of the body as 
well as those of the mind. It is among hermits that are found 
the men who carry human existence to its extreme limits; such 
are the Bramins of India. In brief, I consider solitude so 
necessary to happiness, even in the world itself, that it appears 


paul and Virginia: 


74 

to me impossible to derive lasting pleasure from any pursuit 
whatever, or to regulate our conduct by any stable principle, if 
we do not create for^urselves a mental void, whence our own 
views rarely emerge, and into which the opinions of others 
never enter. I do not mean to say that man ought to live 
absolutely alone ; he is connected by his necessities with all 
mankind; his labors are due to man : and he owes something 
too to the rest of nature. But, as God has given to each of us 
organs perfectly adapted to the elements of the globe on which 
we live,—feet for the soil, lungs for the air, eyes for the light, 
without the power of changing the use of any of these faculties, 
he has reserved for himself, as the Author of life, that which is 
its chief organ,—the heart. 

I thus passed my days far from mankind, whom I wished 
to serve, and by whom I have been persecuted. After having 
travelled over many countries of Europe, and some parts of 
America and Africa, I at length pitched my tent in this thinly- 
peopled island, allured by its mild climate and its solitudes. 
A cottage which I built in the woods, at the foot of a tree, a 
little field which I cleared with my own hands, a river which 
glides before my door, suffice for my wants and for my pleas¬ 
ures. I blend with these enjoyments the perusal of some 
chosen books, which teach me to become better. They make 
that world, which I have abandoned, still contribute something 
to my happiness. They lay before me pictures of those pas¬ 
sions which render its inhabitants so miserable ; and in the 
comparison I am thus led to make between their lot and my 
own, I feel a kind of negative enjoyment. Like a man saved 
from shipwreck, and thrown upon a rock, I contemplate, from 
my solitude, the storms which rage through the rest of the 
world ; and my repose seems more profound from the distant 
sound of the tempest. As men have ceased to fall in my way, 
I no longer view them with aversion ; I only pity them. If I 
sometimes fall in with an unfortunate being, I try to help him by 
my counsels, as a passer-by on the brink of a torrent extends 
his hand to save a wretch from drowning. But I have hardly 
ever found but the innocent attentive to my voice. Nature 
calls the majority of men to her in vain. Each of them forms 
an image of her for himself, and invests her with his own pas¬ 
sions. He pursues during the whole of his life this vain phan¬ 
tom, which leads him astray; and he afterwards complains to 
Heaven of the misfortunes which he has thus created for him¬ 
self. Among the many children of misfortune whom I have 
endeavor d n lead bagk to the enjoyments of nature 5 I havg 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA A 

— . 1 ; 4 

not found one but was intoxicated with his own miseries. They 
have listened to me at first with attention, in the hope that I 
could teach them how to acquire glory »or fortune, but when 
they found that I only wished to instruct them how to dispense 
with these chimeras, the,ir attention has been converted into 
pity, because I did not prize their miserable happiness. They 
blamed my solitary life ; they alleged that they alone were 
useful to men, and they endeavored to draw me into their vor¬ 
tex. But if I communicate with all, I lay myself open to none. 
It is often sufficient for me to serve as a lesson to myself. In 
my present tranquillity, I pass in review the agitating pursuits 
of my past life, to which I formerly attached so muqh value,— 
patronage, fortune, reputation, pleasure, and the opinions which 
are ever at strife over all the earth. I compare the men whom 
I have seen disputing furiously over these vanities, and who 
are no more, to the tiny waves of my rivulet, which break in 
foam against its rocky bed, and. disappear, never to return. 
As for me, I suffer myself to float calmly down the stream of 
time to the shoreless ocean of futurity; while, in the contem¬ 
plation of the present harmony of nature, I elevate my soul 
towards its supreme Author, and hope for a more happy lot in 
another state of existence. 

Although you cannot descry from my hermitage, situated in 
the midst of a forest, that immense variety of objects which 
this elevated spot presents, the grounds are disposed with 
peculiar beauty, at least to one who, like me, prefers the seclu¬ 
sion of .a home scene to great and extensive prospects. The 
river which glides before my door passes in a straight line 
across the woods, looking like a long canal shaded by all 
kinds of trees. Among them are the gum tree, the ebony tree, 
and that which is here called bois de pomme, with olive and 
cinnamon-wood trees; while in some parts the cabbage-palm 
trees raise their naked stems more than a hundred feet high, 
their summits crowned with a clustre of leaves, and towering 
above the woods like one forest piled upon another. Lianas, 
of various foliage, intertwining themselves among the trees, 
form, here, arcades of foliage, there, long canopies of verdure. 
Most of these trees shed aromatic odors so powerful, that the 
garments of a traveller, who has passed through the forest, 
often retain for hours the most delicious fragrance. In the sea¬ 
son when they produce their lavish blossoms, they appear as if 
half-covered with snow. Towards the end of summer, various 
kinds Qf foreign birds hasten, impelled by some inexplicable 



PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


76 

instinct, from unknown regions on the other side of immense 
oceans, to feed upon the grain and other vegetable productions 
of the island ; and the brilliancy of their plumage forms a strik- 
ing contrast to the more sombre tints of the foliage, embrowned 
by the sun. Among these are various kinds of parroquets, and 
the blue pigeon, called here the pigeon of Holland. Monkeys, 
the domestic inhabitants of our forests, sport upon the dark 
branches of the trees, from which they are easily distinguished 
by their gray and greenish skin, and their black visages. Some 
hang, suspended by the tail, and swing themselves in air ; 
others leap from branch to branch, bearing their young in their 
arms. The murderous gun has never affrighted these peaceful 
children of nature. You hear nothing but sounds of joy,—the 
warblings and unknown notes of birds from the countries of the 
south, repeated from a distance by the echoes of the forest. 
The river, which pours, in foaming eddies, over a bed of rocks, 
through the midst of the woods, reflects here and there upon 
its limpid waters their venerable masses of verdure and of 
shade, along with the sports of their happy inhabitants. About 
a thousand paces from thence it forms several cascades, clear 
as crystal in their fall, but broken at the bottom into frothy 
surges. Innumerable confused sounds issue from these watery 
tumults, which, borne by the winds across the forest, now sink 
in distance, now all at once swell out, booming on the ear like 
the bells of a cathedral. The air, kept ever in motion by the 
running water, preserves upon the banks of the river, amid all 
the summer heats, a freshness and verdure rarely found In this 
island, even on the summits of the mountains. 

At some distance from this place is a rock, placed far enough 
from the cascade to prevent the ear from being deafened with 
the noise of its waters, and sufficiently near for the enjoyment 
of seeing it, of feeling its coolness, and hearing its gentle mur¬ 
murs. Thither, amidst the heats of summer, Madame de la Tour, 
Margaret, Virginia, Paul and myself, sometimes repaired, to dine 
beneath the shadow of this rock. Virginia, who always, in her 
most ordinary actions, was mindful of the good of others, 
never eat of any fruit in the fields without planting the seed or 
kernal in the ground. “ From this,” said she, “ trees will come, 
which will yield their fruit to some traveller, or at least to some 
bird.” One day, having eaten of the papaw fruit at the foot of 
that rock, she planted the seeds on the spot. Soon after, 
several papaw trees sprang up, among which was one with 
female blossoms, that is to say, a fruit-bearing tree. This tree 
at the time of Virginia’s departure, was scarcely as high as her 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


11 

knee ; but, as it is a plant of rapid growth, in the course of two 
years it had gained the height of twenty feet, and the upper 
part of its stem was encircled by several rows of ripe fruit. 
Paul, wandering accidentally to the spot, was struck with de¬ 
light at seeing this lofty tree, which had been planted by his 
beloved; but the emotion was transient, and instantly gave 
place to a deep melancholy, at this evidence of her long absence. 
The objects which are habitually before us do not bring our 
minds an adequate idea of the rapidity of life ; they decline im 
sensibly with ourselves : but it is those we behold again, after 
having for some years lost sight of them, that most powerfully 
impress us with a feeling of the swiftness with which the tide 
of life flows on. Paul was no less overwhelmed and affected at 
the sight of this great papaw tree, loaded with fruit, than is the 
traveller when, after a long absence from his own country, he 
finds his contemporaries no more, but their children, whom he 
left at the breast, themselves now become fathers of families. 
Paul sometimes thought of cutting down the tree, which recalled 
too sensibly the distracting remembrance of Virginia’s pro¬ 
longed absence. At other times, contemplating it as a monu¬ 
ment of her benevolence, he kissed its trunk, and apostrophized 
it in terms of the most passionate regret. Indeed, I have myself 
gazed upon it with more emotion and more veneration than 
upon the triumphal arches of Rome. May nature, which every 
day destroys the monuments of kingly ambition, multiply in our 
forests those which testify the beneficence of a poor young girl! 

At the foot of this papaw tree I was always sure to meet 
with Paul when he came into our neighborhood. One day, I 
found him there absorbed in melancholy, and a conversation 
took place between us, which I will relate to you, if I do not 
weary you too much by my long digressions ; they are perhaps 
pardonable to my age and to my last friendships. I will relate 
it to you in the form of a dialogue, that you may form some 
idea of the natural good sense of this young man. You will 
easily distinguish the speakers, from the character of his ques-* 
tions and of my answers. 

Paul .—I am very unhappy. Mademoiselle de la Tour has 
now been gone two years and eight months, and we have heard 
no tidings of her for eight months and a half. She is rich, 
and I am poor ; sbe has forgotten me. I have a great mind 
to follow her. I will go to France ; I will serve the king; I 
will make my fortune ; and then Mademoiselle de la Tour’s 
aunt will bestow her niece upon me when I shall have become 
a great lord. 


78 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


The Old Man. —But, my dear friend, have not you told me 
that you are not of noble birth ? 

Paul .—My mother has told me so ; but, as for myself, I 
know not what noble birth means. I never perceived that I 
had less than others, or that others had more than I. 

The Old Man .—Obscure birth, in France, shuts every door 
of access to great employments ; nor can you even be received 
among any distinguished body of men, if you labor under this 
disadvantage. 

Paul .—You have often told me that it was one source of 
the greatness of France that her humblest subject might attain 
the highest honors; and you have cited to me many instances 
of celebrated men who, born in a mean condition, had con¬ 
ferred honor upon their country. It was your wish, then, by 
concealing the truth to stimulate my ardor ? 

The Old Man. —Never, my son, would I lower it. I told 
you the truth with regard to the past; but now, everything has 
undergone a great change. Everything in France is now to 
be obtained by interest alone; every place and employment is 
now become as it were the patrimony of a small number of 
families, or is divided among public bodies. The king is a 
sun, and the nobles and great corporate bodies surround him 
like so many clouds ; it is almost impossible for any of his 
rays to reach you. Formerly, under less exclusive administra¬ 
tions, such phenomena have been seen. Then talents and 
merit showed themselves everywhere, as newly cleared lands 
are always loaded with abundance. But great kings, who can 
really form a just estimate of men, and choose them with judg¬ 
ment, are rare. The ordinary race of monarchs allow them¬ 
selves to be guided by the nobles and people who surround 
them. 

Paul .—But perhaps I shall find one of these nobles to pro¬ 
tect me. 

The Old Man .—To gain the protection of the great you 
must lend yourself to their ambition, and administer to their 
pleasures. You would never succeed ; for, in addition to your 
obscure birth, you have too much integrity. 

Paul .—But I will perform such courageous actions, I will 
be so faithful to my word, so exact in the performance of my 
duties, so zealous and so constant in my friendships, that I 
will render myself worthy to be adopted by some one of them. 
In the ancient histories, you have made me read, I have seen 
many examples of such adoptions. 

The Old Man. —Oh, my young friend 1 among the Greeks 


Paul and Virginia. 


79 

and Romans, even in their decline, the nobles had some respect 
for virtue ; but out of all the immense number of men, sprung 
from the mass of the people, in France, who have signalized 
themselves in every possible manner, I do not recollect a 
single instance of one being adopted by any great family. If 
it were not for our kings, virtue, in our country, would be eter¬ 
nally condemned as plebeian. As I said before, che monarch 
sometimes, when he perceives it, renders to it due honor; but 
in the present day, the distinctions which should be bestowed 
on merit are generally to be obtained by money alone. 

PauL—X f I cannot find a nobleman to adopt me, I will seek 
to please some public body. I will espouse its interests and 
its opinions: I will make myself beloved by it. 

The Old Man .—You will act then like other men?—you 
will renounce your conscience to obtain a fortune ? 

Paul .—Oh no ! I will never lend myself to anything but 
the truth. 

The Old Man .—Instead of making yourself beloved, you 
would become an object of dislike. Besides, public bodies 
have never taken much interest in the discovery of truth. All 
opinions are nearly alike to ambitious men, provided only that 
they themselves can gain their ends. 

Paul .—How unfortunate I am ! Everything bars my pro¬ 
gress. I am condffnned to pass my life in ignoble toil, far 
from Virginia. 

As he said this he sighed deeply. 

The Old Man .—Let God be your patron, and mankind the 
public body you would serve. Be constantly attached to them 
both. Families, corporations, nations and kings have, all of 
them, their prejudices and thejr passions ; it is often necessary 
to serve them by the practice of vice: God and mankind at 
large require only the exercise of the virtues. 

But why do you wish to be distinguished from other men ? 
It is hardly a natural sentiment, for, if all men possessed it, 
everyone would be at constant strife with his neighbor. Be 
satisfied with fulfilling your duty in the station in which Provi¬ 
dence has placed you ; be grateful for your lot, which permits 
you to enjoy the blessing of a quiet conscience, and which does 
not compel you, like the great, to let your happiness rest on 
| the opinion of the little, or, like the little, to cringe to the 
great, in order to obtain the means of existence. You are now 
placed in a country and a condition in which you are not re¬ 
duced to deceive or flatter anyone, or debase yourself, as the 
greater part of those who seek their fortune in Europe are 


So 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


obliged to do ; in which the exercise of no virtue is forbiddeo 
you; in which you may be, with impunity, good, sincere, well- 
informed, patient, temperate, chaste, indulgent to others’ faults, 
pious, and no shaft of ridicule be aimed at you to destroy your 
wisdom, as yet only in its bud. Heaven has given you liberty, 
health, a good conscience, and friends; kings themselves, whose 
favor you desire, are not so happy. 

Paul .—Ah ! I only want to have Virginia with me : without 
her I have nothing,—with her, I should possess all my desire. 
She alone is to me birth, glory, and fortune. But, since her 
relation will only give her to some one with a great name, I 
will study. By the aid of study and of books, learning and 
celebrity are to be attained. I will become a man of science : 
I will render my knowledge useful to the service of my country, 
without injuring any one, or owning dependence on any one. I 
will become celebrated, and my glory shall be achieved only 
by myself. 

The Old Man .—My son, talents are a gift yet more rare 
than either birth or riches, and undoubtedly they are a greater 
good than either, since they can never be taken away from us, 
and that they obtain for us everywhere public esteem. But 
they may be said to be worth all that they cost us. They are 
seldom acquired but by every species of privation, by the pos¬ 
session of exquisite sensibility, which often produces inward un¬ 
happiness, and which exposes us without to the malice and 
persecutions of our contemporaries. The lawyer envies not, 
in France, the glory of the soldier, nor does the soldier envy 
that of the naval officer ; but they will all oppose you, and bar 
your progress to distinction, because your assumption of su¬ 
perior ability will wound the self-love of them all. You say 
that you will do good to men ; but recollect, that he who makes 
the earth produce a single ear of corn more, renders them a 
greater service than he who writes a book. 

Paul .—Oh ! she, then, who planted this papaw tree, has 
made a more useful and more grateful present to the inhabi¬ 
tants of these forests than if she had given them a whole library. 

So saying, he threw his arms around the tree, and kissed it 
with transport. 

The Old Man .—The best of books,—that which preaches 
nothing but equality, brotherly love, charity, and peace,—the 
Gospel, has served as a pretext, during many centuries, for 
Europeans to let loose all their fury. How many tyrannies, 
both public and private, are still practiced in its name on the 
face of the earth! After this, who will dare to flatter himself 


PAUL AMD VIRGMIA. 


8r 

that anything he can write will be of service to his fellow-men ? 
Remember the fate of most of the philosophers who have 
preached to them wisdom. Homer, who clothed it in such 
noble verse, asked for alms all his life. Socrates, whose con¬ 
versation and example gave such admirable lessons to the 
Athenians, was sentenced by them to be poisoned. His sublime 
disciple, Plato, was delivered over to slavery by the order of 
the very prince who protected him ; and, before them, Pythag¬ 
oras, whose humanity extended even to animals, was burned 
alive by the Crotoniates. What do I say?—many even of 
these illustrious names have descended to us disfigured by 
some traits of satire by which they became characterized, hu¬ 
man ingratitude taking pleasure in thus recognizing them; 
and if, in the crowd, the glory of some names is come down 
to us without spot or blemish, we shall find that they who have 
borne them have lived far from the society of their contempo¬ 
raries ; like those statues which are found entire beneath the 
soil in Greece and Italy, and which, by being hidden in the 
bosom of the earth, have escaped uninjured, from the fury of 
the barbarians. 

You see, then, that to acquire the glory which a turbulent 
literary career can give you, you must not only be virtuous, 
but ready, if necessary, to sacrifice life itself. But, after all, 
do not fancy that the great in France trouble themselves about 
such glory as this. Little do they care for literary men, whose 
knowledge brings them neither honors, nor power, nor even 
admission at court. Persecution, it is true, is rarely practiced 
in this age, because it is habitually indifferent to everything 
except wealth and luxury ; but knowledge and virtue no longer 
lead to distinction, since everything in the state is to be pur¬ 
chased with money. Formerly, men of letters were certain of 
reward by some place in the church, the magistracy, or the ad¬ 
ministration ; now they are considered good for nothing but to 
write books. But this fruit of their minds, little valued by the 
world at large, is still worthy of its celestial origin. For these 
books is reserved the privilege of shedding lustre on obscure 
virtue, of consoling the unhappy, of enlightening nations, and 
of telling the truth even to kings. This is, unquestionably, 
the most august commission with which Heaven can honor a 
mortal upon this earth. Where is the author who would not 
be consoled for the injustice or contempt of those who are the 
dispensers of the ordinary gifts of fortune, when he reflects 
that his work may pass from age to age, from nation to nation, 
opposing a barrier to error and to_ tyranny : and that, from 




82 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


amidst the obscurity in which he has lived, there will shine 
forth a glory which will efface that of the common herd of 
monarchs, the monuments of whose deeds perish in oblivion, 
notwithstanding the flatterers who erect and magnify them ? 

Paul. —Ah! I am only covetous of glory to bestow it on 
Virginia, and render her dear to the whole world. But can 
you, who know so much, tell me whether we shall ever be 
married ? I should like to be a very learned man, if only for 
the sake of knowing what will come to pass. 

The Old Man. —Who would live, my son, if the future were' 
revealed to him ?—when a single anticipated misfortune gives 
us so much useless uneasiness—when the foreknowledge of 
one certain calamity is enough to embitter every day that pre¬ 
cedes it: It is better not to pry too curiously, even into the 
things which surround us. Heaven, which has given us the 
power of reflection to foresee our necessities, gave us also those 
very necessities to set limits to its exercise. 

Paul. —You tell me that with money people in Europe ac¬ 
quire dignities and honors. I will go, then, to enrich myself 
in Bengal, and afterwards proceed to Paris, and marry Virginia. 

I will embark at once. 

The Old Man. —What! would you leave her mother and 
yours ? 

Paul. —Why, you yourself have advised my going to the 
Indies. 

The Old Man. —Virginia was then here ; but you are now 
the only means of support both of her mother and of your 
own. 

Paul. —Virginia will assist them by means of her rich rela¬ 
tion. 

The Old Man. —The rich care little for those, from whom 
no honor is reflected upon themselves in the world. - Many of 
them have relations much more to be pitied than Madame" c!e 
la Tour, who, for want of their assistance, sacrifice their liberty 
for bread, and pass their lives immured within the walls of a 
convent. 

Paul. —Oh, what a country is Europe ! Virginia must come 
back here. What need has she of a rich relation ? She was 
so happy in these huts; she looked so beautiful and so well- 
dressed with a red handkerchief or a few flowers around her 
head r Return, Virginia i leave your sumptuous mansions and 
your grandeur, and come back to these rocks,—to the shade 
of these woods and of our cocoa trees. Alas ! you are perhaps 
even now unhappy ! ”—and he began to shed tears. “ My 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


*3 

father,” continued he, “ hide nothing from me ; if you cannot 
tell me whether I shall marry Virginia, tell me at least if she 
loves me still, surrounded as she is by noblemen who speak to 
the king, and who go to see her. 

The Old Man. —Oh, my dear friend ! I am sure, for many 
reasons, that she loves you ; but above all, because she is vir- 
tuous. At these words he threw himself on my neck in a trans¬ 
port of joy. 

Paul. —But do you think that the women of Europe are false, 
as they are represented in the comedies and books which you 
have lent me ? 

The Old Man. —Women are false in those countries where 
men are tyrants. Violence always engenders a disposition to 
deceive. 

Paul. —In what way can men tyrannize over women ? 

The Old Man. —In giving them in marriage without con¬ 
sulting their inclinations ;—in uniting a young girl to an old 
man, or a women of sensibility to a frigid and indifferent 
husband. 

Paul. —Why not join together those who are suited to each 
other,—the young to the young, and lovers to those they love ? 

The Old Man. —Because few young men in France have 
property enough to support them when they are married, and 
cannot acquire it till the greater part of their life is passed. 
While young, they seduce the wives of others, and when they 
are old, they cannot secure the affections of their own. At 
first, they themselves are deceivers: and afterwards, they are 
deceived in their turn. This is one of the reactions of that 
eternal justice, by which the world is governed ; an excess on 
one side is sure to be balanced by one on the other. Thus, the 
greater part of Europeans pass their lives in this twofold irregu¬ 
larity, which increases everywhere in the same proportion that 
wealth is accumulated in the hands of a few individuals. So¬ 
ciety is like a garden, where shrubs cannot grow if they are 
overshadowed by lofty trees ; but there is this wide difference 
between them,—that the beauty of a garden may result from 
the admixture of a small number of forest trees, while the 
prosperity of a state depends on the multitude and equality of 
its citizens, and not on a small number of very rich men. 

Paul. —But where is the necessity of being rich in order to 
marry ? 

The Old Man. —In order to pass through life in abundance, 
without being obliged to work. 

Paul. —But why not work? I am sure I work hard enough. 


84 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


The Old Man. —In Europe, working with your hands is con¬ 
sidered a degradation ; it is compared to the labor performed 
by a machine. The occupation of cultivating the earth is the 
most despised of all. Even an artisan is held in more estima¬ 
tion than a peasant. 

Paul .—What! do you mean to say that the art which fur¬ 
nishes food for mankind is despised in Europe ? I hardly un¬ 
derstand you. 

The Old Man. —Oh ! it is impossible for a person educated 
according to nature to form an idea of the depraved state of 
society. It is easy to form a precise notion of order, but not 
of disorder. Beauty, virtue, happiness, have all their defined 
proportions ; deformity, vice, and misery have none. 

Paul. —The rich then are always very happy ! They meet 
with no obstacles to the fulfilment of their wishes, and they 
can lavish happiness on those whom they love. 

The Old Man. —Far from it, my son ! They are, for the 
most part satiated with pleasure, for this very reason,—that it 
costs them no trouble. Have you never yourself experienced 
how much the pleasure of repose is increased by fatigue ; that 
of eating, by hunger; or that of drinking, by thirst ? The 
pleasure also of loving and being beloved is only to be acquired 
by innumerable privations and sacrifices. Wealth, by antici¬ 
pating all their necessities, deprives its possessors of all these 
pleasures. To this ennui, consequent upon satiety, may also 
be added the pride which springs from their opulence, and 
which is wounded by the most trifling privation, when the 
greatest enjoyments have ceased to charm. The perfume of a 
thousand roses gives pleasure but for a moment; but the pain 
occasioned by a single thorn endures long after the infliction 
of the wound. A single evil in the midst of their pleasures is 
to the rich like a thorn among flowers ; to the poor, on the con¬ 
trary, one pleasure amidst all their troubles is a flower among 
a wilderness of thorns; they have a most lively enjoyment of 
it. The effect of everything is increased by contrast; nature 
has balanced all things. Which condition, after all, do you 
consider preferable,—to have scarcely anything to hope, and 
everything to fear, or to have everything to hope and nothing 
to fear ? The former condition is that of the rich, the latter, 
that of the poor. But either of these extremes is with diffi¬ 
culty supported by man, whose happiness consists in a middle 
station of life, in union with virtue. 

Paul. —What do you understand by virtue? 

The Old Man. —To you, my son, who support your family 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


*5 

by your labor, it need hardly be defined. Virtue consists in 
endeavoring to do all the good we can to others, with an ulti* 
mate intention of pleasing God alone. 

Paul .—Oh ! how virtuous, then, is Virginia! Virtue led 
her to seek for riches, that she might practice benevolence. 
Virtue induced her to quit this island, and virtue will bring her 
back to it. 

The idea of her speedy return firing the imagination of this 
young man, all his anxieties suddenly vanished. Virginia, he 
was persuaded, had not written, because she would soon ar¬ 
rive. It took so little time to come from Europe with a fair 
wind ! Then he enumerated the vessels which had made this 
passage of four thousand five hundred leagues in less than 
three months ; and perhaps the vessel in which Virginia had 
embarked might not be more than two. Shipbuilders were 
now so ingenious, and sailors were so expert! He then talked 
to me of the arrangements he intended to make for her recep¬ 
tion, of the new house he would build for her, and of the pleas¬ 
ures and surprises which he would contrive for her every day, 
when she was his wife. His wife ! The idea filled him with 
ecstasy. “ At least, my dear father/’ said he, “ you shall then 
do no more work than you please. As Virginia will be rich, 
we shall have plenty of negroes, and they shall work for you. 
You shall always live •with us, and have no other care than to 
amuse yourself and be happy; ”—and, his heart throbbing with 
joy, he flew to communicate these exquisite anticipations to 
his family. 

In a short time, however, these enchanting hopes were suc¬ 
ceeded by the most cruel apprehensions. It is always the effect 
of violent passions to throw the soul into opposite extremes. 
Paul returned the next day to my dwelling, overwhelmed with 
melancholy, and said to me,—“ I hear nothing from Virginia. 
Had she left Europe she would have written me word of her 
departure. Ah ! the reports which I have heard concerning 
her are but too well founded. Her aunt has married her to 
some great lord. She, like others, has been undone by the love 
of riches. In those books which paint women so well, virtue is 
treated but as a subject of romance. If Virginia had been vir¬ 
tuous, she would never have forsaken her mother and me. I 
do nothing but think of her, and she has forgotten me I am 
wretched, and she is diverting herself. The thought distracts 
.me ; I cannot bear myself! Would to Heaven that war were 
declared in India ! I would go there and die.” 

“ My son,” I answered, “ that courage which prompts us on 


86 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


to court death is but the courage of a moment, and is often ex¬ 
cited only by the vain applause of men, or by the hope of post¬ 
humous renown. There is another description of courage, rarer 
and more necessary, which enables us to support, without wit¬ 
ness and without applause, the vexations of life ; this virtue is 
patience. Relying for support, not upon the opinions of others, 
or the impulse of the passions, but upon the will of God, patience 
is the courage of virtue,” 

“ Ah ! ” cried he, “ I am then without virtue ! Everything 
overwhelms me and drives me to despair.”—“ Equal, constant, 
and invariable virtue,” I replied, “ belongs not to man. In the 
midst of the many passions which agitate us, our reason is dis¬ 
ordered and obscure: but there is an ever-burning lamp, at 
which we can rekindle its flame ; and that is, literature. 

“Literature, my dear son, is the gift of Heaven, a ray of 
that wisdom by which the universe is governed, and which man, 
inspired by a celestial intelligence, has drawn down to earth. 
Like the rays of the sun, it enlightens us, it rejoices us, it 
warms us with a heavenly flame, and seems, in some sort, like 
the element of fire, to bend all nature to our use. By its means 
we are enabled to bring around us all things, all places, all men, 
and all times. It assists us to regulate our manners and our 
life. By its aid, too, our passions are calmed, vice is suppressed, 
and virtue encouraged by the memorable examples of great 
and good men which it has handed down to us, and whose 
time-honored images it ever brings before our eyes. Literature 
is a daughter of Heaven who has descended upon earth to 
soften and to charm away all the evils of the human race. The 
greatest writers have ever appeared in the worst times,—in 
times in which society can hardly be held together,—the times 
of barbarism and every species of depravity. My son, literature 
has consoled an infinite number of men more unhappy than 
yourself: Xenophon, banished from his country after having 
saved to her ten thousand of her sons; Scipio Africanus, 
wearied to death by the calumnies of the Romans: Lucullus, 
tormented by their cabals ; and Catinat, by the ingratitude of 
a court. The Greeks, with their never-failing ingenuity, as¬ 
signed to each of the Muses a portion of the great circle of 
human intelligence for her especial superintendence; we ought 
in the same manner, to give up to them the regulation of our 
passions, to bring them under proper restraint. Literature in 
this imaginative guise, would thus fulfil, in relation to the 
powers of the soul, the same functions as the Hours, who yoked 
and conducted the chariot of the Sun, 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


*7 

M Have recourse to your books, then, my son. The wise 
men who have written before our clays are travellers who have 
preceded us in the paths of misfortune, and who stretch out a 
friendly hand towards us, and invite us to join their society, 
when we are abandoned by everything else. A good book is 
a good friend.” 

“ Ah ! cried Paul, “ I stood in no need of books when Vir¬ 
ginia was here, and she had studied as little as myself; but 
when she looked at me, and called me her friend, I could not 
feel unhappy.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said I, “ there is no friend so agreeable as 
a mistress by whom we are beloved. There is, moreover, in 
woman a liveliness and gayety, which powerfully tend to dissi¬ 
pate the melancholy feelings of a man ; her presence drives 
away the dark phantoms of imagination produced by over- 
reflection. Upon her countenance sit soft attractions and ten¬ 
der confidence. What joy is not heightened when it is shared 
by her ? What brow is not unbent by her smiles ? What anger 
can resist her tears ? Virginia will return with more philosophy 
than you, and will be quite surprised to find the garden so un¬ 
finished ;—she who could think of its embellishments in spite 
of all the persecutions of her aunt, and when far from her 
mother and from you.” 

The idea of Virginia’s speedy return reanimated the droop¬ 
ing spirits of her lover, and he resumed his rural occupations, 
happy amidst his toils, in the reflection that they would soon 
find a termination so dear to the wishes of his heart. 

One morning, at break of day, (it was the 24 th of Decem¬ 
ber, 1744), Paul, when he arose, perceived a white flag hoisted 
upon the Mountain of Discovery. This flag he knew to be the 
signal of a vessel descried at sea. He instantly flew to the 
town to learn if this vessel brought any tidings of Virginia, and 
waited there till the return of the pilot, who was gone, accord¬ 
ing to custom, to board the ship. The pilot did not return till 
the evening, when he brought the governor information that 
the signalled vessel was the Saint-Geran, of seven hundred 
tons burden, and commanded by a captain of the name of 
Aubin ; that she was now four leagues out at sea, but would 
probably anchor at Port Louis the following afternoon, if the 
wind became fair: at present there w’as a calm. The pilot then 
handed to the governor a number of letters which the Saint- 
Geran had brought from France, among which was one ad¬ 
dressed to Madame de la Tour, in the handwriting of Virginia. 
Paul seized upon the letter, kissed it with transport, and plac- 


$8 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


ing it in his bosom, flew to the plantation. No sooner did he 
perceive from a distance the family, who were awaiting his 
return upon the rock of Adieus, than he waved the letter aloft 
in the air, without being able to utter a word. No sooner was 
the seal broken, than they all crowded round Madame de la 
Tour, to hear the letter read. Virginia informed her mother 
that §he had experienced much ill-usage from her aunt, who, 
after having in vain urged her to a marriage against her in¬ 
clination, had disinherited her, and had sent her back at a 
time when she would probably reach the Mauritius during the 
hurricane season. In vain, she added, had she endeavored to 
soften her aunt, by representing what she owed to her mother, 
and to her early habits ; she was treated as a romantic girl, 
whose head had been turned by novels. She could now only 
think of the joy of again seeing and embracing her beloved 
family, and would have gratified her ardent desire at once, by 
landing in the pilot’s boat, if the captain had allowed her : but 
that he had objected, on account of the distance, and of a 
heavy swell, which, notwithstanding the calm, reigned in the 
open sea. 

As soon as the letter was finished, the whole of the family, 
transported with joy, repeatedly exclaimed, “ Virginia is ar¬ 
rived ! ” and mistresses and servants embraced each other. 
Madame de la Tour said to Paul,—“ My son, go and inform 
our neighbor of Virginia’s arrival.” Domingo immediately 
lighted a torch of bois de ronde, and he and Paul bent their 
way towards my dwelling. 

It was about ten o’clock at night, and I was just going to 
extinguish my lamp, and retire to rest, when I perceived, 
through the palisades round my cottage, a light in the woods. 
Soon after, I heard the voice of Paul calling me. I instantly 
arose, and had hardly dressed myself, when Paul, almost beside 
himself, and panting for breath, sprang on my neck, crying,— 
“ Come along, come along. Virginia is arrived. Let us go to 
the port; the vessel will anchor at break of day.” 

Scarcely had he uttered the words, when we set off. As 
we were passing through the woods of the Sloping Mountain, 
2 nd were already on the road which leads from the Shaddock 
Grove to the port, I heard some one walking behind us. It 
proved to be a negro, and he was advancing with hasty steps. 
When he had reached us, I asked him whence he came, and 
whither he was going with such expedition. He answered, “ I 
come from that part of the island called Golden Dust; and am 
sent to the port, to inform the governor that a ship from France 


PAUL A LTD VIRGINIA\ 


89 

has anchored under the Isle of Amber. She is firing guns of 
distress, for the sea is very rough.” Having said this, the 
man left us, and pursued his journey without any further 
delay. 

I then said to Paul,—“ Let us go towards the quarter of 
the Golden Dust, and meet Virginia there. It is not more 
than three leagues from hence.” We accordingly bent ouf 
course towards the northern part of the island. The heat was 
suffocating. The mcon had risen, and was surrounded by 
three large black circles. A frightful darkness shrouded the 
sky; but the frequent flashes of lightning discovered to us 
long rows of thick and gloomy clouds, hanging very low, and 
heaped together over the centre of the island, being driven in 
with great rapidity from the ocean, although not a breath of 
air was perceptible upon the land. As we walked along, we 
thought we heard peals of thunder; but, on listening more 
attentively, we perceived that it was the sound of cannon at a 
distance, repeated by the echoes. These ominous sounds, 
joined to the tempestuous aspect of the heavens, made me 
shudder. I had little doubt of their being signals of dis¬ 
tress from a ship in danger. In about half an hour the firing 
ceased, and I found the silence still more appalling than the 
dismal sounds which had preceded it. 

We hastened on without uttering a word, or daring to com¬ 
municate to each other our mutual apprehensions. At mid¬ 
night, by great exertion, we arrived at the sea-shore, in that 
part of the island called Golden Dust. The billows were 
breaking against the beach with a horrible noise, covering the 
rocks and the strand with foam of a dazzling whiteness, blended 
with sparks of fire. By these phosphoric gleams we distin¬ 
guished, notwithstanding the darkness, a number of fishing 
canoes, drawn up high upon the beach. 

At the entrance of a wood, a short distance from us, we 
saw a fire, round which a party of the inhabitants were assem* 
bled. We repaired thither, in order to rest ourselves till the 
morning. While we were seated near this fire, one of the 
standers-by related, that late in the afternoon he had seen 
vessel in the open sea, driven towards the island by the cur¬ 
rents ; that the night had hidden it from his view; and that 
two hours after sunset he had heard the firing of signal guns 
of distress, but that the surf was so high, that it was impossible 
to launch a boat to go off to her ; that a short time after, he 
thought he perceived the glimmering of the watch-lights on 
board the vessel, which, he feared, by its having approached so 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


90 

near the coast, had steered between the main land and the 
little island of Amber, mistaking the latter for the Point of 
Endeavor, near which vessels pass in order to gain Port Louis ; 
and that, if this were the case, which, however, he would not 
take upon himself to be certain of, the ship, he thought, was in 
very great danger. Another islander then informed us, that he 
had frequently crossed the channel which separates the isle of 
Amber from the coast, and had sounded it; that the anchorage 
was very good, and that the ship would there lie as safely as 
in the best harbor. “ I would stake all I am worth upon it,” 
said he, “ and if I were on board, I should sleep as sound as 
on shore.” A third bystander declared that it was impossible 
for the ship to enter that channel, which was scarcely navigable 
for a boat. He was certain, he said, that he had seen the 
vessel at anchor beyond the isle of Amber; so that, if the wind 
arose in the morning, she could either put to sea, or gain the 
harbor. Other inhabitants gave different opinions upon this 
subject, which they continued to discuss in the usual desultory 
manner of the indolent Creoles. Paul and I observed a pro¬ 
found silence. We remained on this spot till break of day, but 
the weather was too hazy to admit of our distinguishing any 
object at sea, everything being covered with fog. All we 
could descry to seaward was a dark cloud, which they told us 
was the isle of Amber, at the distance of a quarter of a league 
from the coast. On this gloomy day we could only discern the 
point of land on which we were standing, and the peaks of 
some inland mountains, which started out occasionally from 
the midst of the clouds that hung around them. 

At about seven in the morning we heard the sound of 
drums in the woods : it announced the approach of the governor, 
Monsieur de la Bourdonnais, who soon after arrived on horse¬ 
back, at the head of a detachment of soldiers armed with mus¬ 
kets, and a crowd of islanders and negroes. He drew up his 
soldiers upon the beach, and ordered them to make a general 
discharge. This was no sooner done, than we perceived a 
glimmering light upon the water which was instantly followed 
by the report of a cannon. We judged that the ship was at no 
great distance and all ran towards that part whence the light 
and sound proceeded. We now discerned through the fog the 
hull and yards of a large vessel. We were so near to her, that 
notwithstanding the tumult of the waves, we could distinctly 
hear the whistle of the boatswain, and the shouts of the sailors, 
who cried out three times, Vive le roi ! this being the cry of 
the French in extreme danger, as well as in exuberant joy ;—as 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


9 * 

though they wished to Call their prince to their aid, or to testify 
to him that they are prepared to lay down their lives in his 
service. 

As soon as the Saint-Geran perceived that we were near 
enough to render her assistance, she continued to fire guns 
regularly at intervals of three minutes. Monsieur de la Bour- 
donnais caused great fires to be lighted at certain distances 
upon the strand, and sent to all the inhabitants of the neighbor¬ 
hood, in search of provisions, planks, cables, and empty bar¬ 
rels. A number of people soon arrived, accompanied by their 
negroes loaded with provisions and cordage, which they had 
brought from the plantations of Golden Dust, from the district 
of La Flaque, and from the river c*f the Rampart. One of the 
most aged of these planters, approaching the governor, said to 
him,—“ We have heard all night hollow noises in the moun¬ 
tain ; in the woods, the leaves of the trees are shaken, although 
there is no wind; the sea-birds seek refuge upon the land : it 
is certain that all these signs announce a hurricane.” “ Well, 
my friends,” answered the governor, “ we are prepared for it, 
and no doubt the vessel is also.” 

Everything, indeed, presaged the near approach of the 
hurricane. The centre of the clouds in the zenith was of a 
dismal black, while their skirts were tinged with a copper- 
colored hue. The air resounded with the cries of the tropic- 
birds, petrels, frigate-birds, and innumerable other sea-fowl, 
which notwithstanding the obscurity of the atmosphere, were 
seen coming from every point of the horizon, to seek for 
shelter in the island. 

ToXvards nine in the morning we heard in the direction of 
the ocean the most terrific noise, like the sound of thunder 
mingled with that of torrents rushing down the steeps of lofty 
mountains. A general cry was heard of, “ There is the hurri¬ 
cane ! ” and the next moment a frightful gust of wind dispelled 
the fog which covered the isle of Amber and its channel. The 
Saint-Geran then presented herself to our view, her deck 
crowded with people, her yards and topmasts lowered down, 
and her flag half-mast high, moored by four cables at her bow 
and one at her stern. She had anchored between the isle of 
Amber and the main land, inside the chain of reefs which en¬ 
circles the island, and which she had passed through in a place 
where no vessel had ever passed before. She presented her 
head to the waves that rolled in from the open sea, and as each 
billow rushed into the narrow strait where she lay, her bow 
lifted to such a degree as to show her keel; and at the same 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


92 

moment her stern, plunging into the water, disappeared alto¬ 
gether from our sight, as if it were swallowed up by the surges. 
In this position, driven by the winds and waves towards the 
shore, it was equally impossible for her to return by the passage 
through which she had made her way; or, by cutting her 
cables, to strand herself upon the beach, from which she was 
separated by sandbanks and reefs of rocks. Every billow 
which broke upon the coast advanced roaring to the bottom of 
the bay, throwing up heaps of shingle to the distance of fifty feet 
upon the land; then, rushing back, laid bare its sandy bed, 
from which it rolled immense stones, with a hoarse and dismal 
noise. The sea, swelled by the violence cf the wind, rose 
higher every moment; and the whole channel between this 
island and the isle of Amber was soon one vast sheet of white 
foam, full of yawning pits of black and deep billows. Heaps 
of this foam, more than six feet high, were piled up at the 
bottom of the bay; and the winds which swept its surface car¬ 
ried masses of it over the steep sea-bank, scattering it upon the 
land to the distance of half a league. These innumerable 
white flakes, driven horizontally even to the very foot of the 
mountains, looked like snow issuing from the bosom of the 
ocean. The appearance of the horizon portended a lasting 
tempest; the sky and the water seemed blended together. 
Thick masses of clouds, of a frightful form, swept across the 
zenith with the swiftness of birds, while others appeared motion¬ 
less as rocks. Not a single spot of blue sky could be discerned 
in the whole firmament; and a pale yellow gleam only light¬ 
ened up all the objects of the earth, the sea, and the skies. 

From the violent rolling of the ship, what we all dreaded 
happened at last. The cables which held her bow were torn 
away : she then swung to a single hawser, and was instantly 
dashed upon the rocks, at the distance of half a cable’s length 
from the shore. A general cry of horror issued from the spec¬ 
tators. Paul rushed forward to throw himself into the sea, 
when, seizing him by the ann, “ My son,” I exclaimed, “ would 
you perish ?”—“ Let me go to save her,” he cried, “or let me 
die ! ” Seeing that despair had deprived him of reason, Dom¬ 
ingo and I, in order to preserve him, fastened a long cord 
around his waist, and held it fast by the end. Paul then pre¬ 
cipitated himself towards the Saint-Geran, now swimming, 
and now walking upon the rocks. Sometimes he had hopes 
of reaching the vessel, which the sea, by the reflux of its waves, 
had left almost dry, so that you could have walked round it on 
foot; but suddenly the billows, returning with fresh fury. 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


93 

shrouded it beneath mountains of water, which then,lifted it 
upright upon its keel. The breakers at the same moment 
threw the unfortunate Paul far upon the beach, his legs bathed 
in blood, his bosom wounded, and himself half dead. The 
moment he had recovered the use of his senses, he arose, and 
returned with new ardor towards the vessel, the parts of which 
now yawned asunder from the violent strokes of the billows. 
The crew then, despairing of their safety, threw themselves in 
crowds into the sea, upon yards, planks, hen-coops, tables, and 
barrels. At this moment we beheld an object which wrung 
our hearts with grief and pity ; a young lady appeared in the 
stern-gallery of the Saint-Geran, stretching out her arms to¬ 
wards him who was making so many efforts to join her. It 
was Virginia. She had discovered her lover by his intrepidity. 
The sight of this amiable girl, exposed to such horrible danger, 
filled us with unutterable despair. As for Virginia, with a firm 
and dignified mien, she waved her hand, as if bidding us an 
eternal farewell. All the sailors had flung themselves into the 
sea, except one, who still remained upon the deck, and who 
was naked, and strong as Hercules. This man approached 
Virginia with respect, and, kneeling at her feet, attempted to 
force her to throw off her clothes ; but she repulsed him with 
modesty, and turned away her head. Then were heard re¬ 
doubled cries from the spectators, “ Save her ! —save her ! ^-do 
not leave her! ” But at that moment a mountain billow, of 
enormous magnitude, ingulfed itself beween the isle of Amber 
and the coast, and menaced the shattered vessel, towards 
which it rolled bellowing, with its black sides and foaming 
head. At this terrible sight the sailor flung himself into the 
seaj and Virginia, seeing death inevitable, crossed her hands 
upon her breast, and raising upwards her serene and beau¬ 
teous eyes, seemed an angel prepared to take her flight to 
Heaven. 

Oh, day of horror ! Alas everything was swallowed up by 
the relentless billows. The surge threw some of the specta¬ 
tors, whom an impulse of humanity had prompted to advance 
towards Virginia, far upon the beach, and also the sailor who 
had endeavored to save her life. This man, who had escaped 
from almost certain death, kneeling on the sand, exclaimed,—• 
“ Oh, my God 1 thou hast saved my life, but I would have 
given it willingly for that excellent young lady, who had perse¬ 
vered in not undressing herself as I had done.” Domingo 
and I drew the unfortunate Paul to the shore. He was sense¬ 
less, and blood was flowing from his mouth and ears. The 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


94 

governor ordered him to be put into the hands of a surgeon, 
while we, on our part, wandered along the beach, in hopes 
that the sea would throw up the corpse of Virginia. But the 
wind having suddenly changed, as it frequently happens, dur¬ 
ing hurricanes, our search was in vain : and we had the grief of 
thinking that we should not be able to bestow on this sweet 
and unfortunate girl the last sad duties. We retired from the 
spot overwhelmed with dismay, and our minds wholly occupied 
by one cruel loss, although numbers had perished in the wreck. 
Some of the spectators seemed tempted, from the fatal destiny 
of this virtuous girl, to doubt the existence of Providence : for 
there are in life such terrible, such unmerited evils, that even 
the hope of the wise is sometimes shaken. 

In the mean time Paul, who began to recover his senses, 
was taken to a house in the neighborhood, till he was in a fit 
state to be removed to his own home. Thither I bent my way 
with Domingo to discharge the melancholy duty of preparing 
Virginia’s mother and her friend for the disastrous event which 
had happened. When we had reached the entrance of the 
valley of the river of Fan-Palms, some negroes informed us 
that the sea had thrown up many pieces of the wreck in the 
opposite bay. We descended towards it and one of the first 
objects that struck my sight upon the beach was the corpse of 
Virginia. The body was half covered with sand, and preserved 
the attitude in which we had seen her perish. Her features 
were not sensibly changed, her eyes were closed, and her 
countenance was still serene ; but the pale purple hues of 
death were blended on her cheek with the blush of virgin mo¬ 
desty. One of her hands was placed upon her clothes ; and 
the other, which she held on her heart, was fast closed, and so 
stiffened, that it was with difficulty that I took from its grasp a 
small box. How great was my emotion when I saw that it 
contained the picture of Paul, which she had promised him 
never to part with while she lived ! At the sight of this last 
mark of the fidelity and tenderness of the unfortunate girl, I 
wept bitterly. As for Domingo, he beat his breast, and 
pierced the air with his shrieks. With heavy hearts we then 
carried the body of Vriginia to a fisherman’s hut, and gave it 
in charge of some poor Malabar women, who carefully washed 
away the sand. 

While they were employed in this melancholy office, we 
ascended the hill with trembling steps to the plantation. We 
found Madame de la Tour and Margaret at prayer; hourly 
expecting to have tidings from the ship. As soon as Madame 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


95 ' 

de la Tour saw me coming, she eagerly cried,— " Where is my 
daughter—my clear daughter,—my child ? ” My silence and my 
tears apprised her of her misfortune. She was instantly seized 
with convulsive stopping of the breath and agonizing pains, and 
her voice was only heard in sighs and groans. Margaret cried, 
“ Where is my son ? I do not see my son ! ” and fainted. We 
ran to her assistance. In a short time she recovered, and 
being assured that Paul was safe, and under the care of the 
governer, she thought of nothing but of succoring her friend, 
who recovered from one fainting fit only to fall into another. 
Madame de la Tour passed the whole night in these cruel 
sufferings, and I became convinced that there was no sorrow 
like that of a mother. When she recovered her senses, she 
cast a fixed, unconscious look towards heaven. In vain her 
friend and myself pressed her hands in ours; in vain we called 
upon her by the most tender names; she appeared wholly in¬ 
sensible to these testimonials of our affection, and no sound 
issued from her oppressed bosom, but deep and hollow moans. 

During the morning Paul was carried home in a palanquin. 
He had now recovered the use of his reason, but was unable 
to utter a word. His interview with his mother and Madame 
de la Tour, which I had dreaded, produced a better effect than 
all my cares. A ray of consolation gleamed on the counte- 
ance of the two unfortunate mothers. They pressed close to 
him, clasped him in their arms, and kissed him : their tears, 
which excess of anguish had till now dried up at the source, 
began to flow. Paul mixed his tears with theirs ; and nature 
having thus found relief, a long stupor succeeded the convul¬ 
sive pangs they had suffered, and afforded them a lethargic 
repose, which was in truth, like that of death. 

Monsieur de la Bourdonnais sent to apprize me secretly 
that the corpse of Virginia had been borne to the town by his 
order, from whence it was to be transferred to the church of 
the Shaddock Grove. I immediately went down to Port Louis, 
where I found a multitude assembled from all parts of the 
island, in order to be present at the funeral solemnity, as if 
the isle had lost that which was nearest and dearest to it. The 
vessels in the harbor had their yards crossed, their flags half- 
mast, and fired guns at long intervals. A body of grenadiers 
led the funeral procession, with their muskets reversed, their 
muffled drums sending forth slow and dismal sounds. Dejec¬ 
tion was depicted in the countenance of these warriors, who 
had so often braved death in battle without changing color. 
Eight young ladies of considerable families of the island, 


Paul And Virginia. 


$6 

dressed in white, and bearing palm-branches in their hands, 
carried the corpse of their amiable companion, which was cov¬ 
ered with flowers. They were followed by a chorus of children, 
chanting hymns, and by the governor, his field officer, all the 
principal inhabitants of the island, and an immense crowd of 
people. 

This imposing funeral solemnity had been ordered by the 
administration of the country, which was desirous of doing 
honor to the virtues of Virginia. But when the mournful pro¬ 
cession arrived at the foot of this mountain, within sight of 
those cottages of which she had been so long an inmate and 
an ornament, diffusing happiness all around them, and which 
her loss had now filled with despair, the funeral pomp was in¬ 
terrupted, the hymns and anthems ceased, and the whole plain 
resounded with sighs and lamentations. Numbers of young 
girls ran from the neighboring plantations, to touch the coffin 
of Virginia with their handkerchiefs, and with chaplets and 
crowns of flowers, invoking her as a saint. Mothers asked of 
heaven a child like Virginia ; lovers, a heart as faithful; the 
poor, as tender a friend; and the slaves as kind a mistress. 

When the procession had reached the place of interment, 
some negresses of Madagascar and Caffres of Mozambique 
placed a number of baskets of fruit around the corpse, and 
hung pieces of stuff upon the adjoining trees, according to 
the custom of their several countries. Some Indian women 
from Bengal also, and from the coast of Malabar, brought 
cages full of small birds, which they set at liberty upon her 
coffin. Thus deeply did the loss of this amiable being affect 
the natives of different countries, and thus was the ritual of 
various religions performed over the tomb of unfortunate 
virtue. 

It became necessary to place guards round her grave, and 
to employ gentle force in removing some of the daughters of 
the neighboring villagers, who endeavored to throw themselves 
into it, saying that they had no longer any consolation to hope 
for in this world, and that nothing remained for them but to 
die with their benefactress. 

On the western side of the church of the Shaddock Grove 
is a small copse of bamboos, where, in returning from mass 
with her mother and Margaret, Virginia loved to rest herself, 
seated by the side of him whom she then called brother. This 
was the spot selected for her interment. 

At his return from the funeral solemnity, Monsieur de la 
Bourdonnais came up here, followed by part of his numerous 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


97 

retinue. He offered Madame de la Tour and her friend all 
the assistance it was m his power to bestow. After briefly ex¬ 
pressing his indignation at the conduct of her unnatural aunt, 
he advanced to Paul, and said everything which he thought 
most likely to soothe and console him. “ Heaven is my wit¬ 
ness, ” said he, “ that I wished to insure your happiness, and 
that of your family. My dear friend, you must go to France; 
I will obtain a commission for you, and during your absence I 
will take the same care of your mother as if she were my 
own.” He then offered him his hand ; but Paul drew away 
and turned his head aside, unable to bear his sight. 

I remained for some time at the plantation of my unfortunate 
friends, that I might render to them and Paul those offices of 
friendship that were in my power, and which might alleviate, 
though they could not heal the wounds of calamity. At the 
end of three weeks Paul was able to walk ; but his mind 
seemed to droop in proportion as his body gathered strength. 
He was insensible to everything; his look was vacant; and 
when asked a question, he made no reply. Madame de la 
Tour, who was dying, said to him often,—“ My son, while I 
look at you, I think I see my dear Virginia.’ , At the name of 
Virginia he shuddered, and hastened away from her, notwith¬ 
standing the entreaties of his mother, who begged him to come 
back to her friend. He used to go alone into the garden, and 
seat himself at the foot of Virginia’s cocoa-tree, with his eyes 
fixed upon the fountain. The governor’s surgeon, who had 
shown the most humane attention to Paul and the whole family, 
told us that in order to cure the deep melancholy which had 
taken possession of his mind, we must allow him to do what¬ 
ever he pleased, without contradiction : this, he said, afforded 
the only chance of overcoming the silence in which he per¬ 
severed. 

I resolved to follow this advice. The first use which Paul 
made of his returning strength was to absent himself from the 
plantation. Being determined not to lose sight of him I set 
out immediately, and desired Domingo to take some provisions 
and accompany us. The young man’s strength and spirits 
seemed renewed as he descended the mountain. He first took 
the road to the Shaddock Grove, and when he was near the 
church, in the Alley of Bamboos, he walked directly to the spot 
where he saw some earth tresh turned up; kneeling down there, 
and raising his eyes to heaven, he offered up a long prayer. 
This appeared to me a favorable symptom of the return of his 
reason; since this mark of confidence in the Supreme Being 


PAUL AND VIRC.TNT A. 


98 

showed that his mind was beginning to resume its natural 
functions. Domingo and I, following his example, fell upon 
our knees, and mingled our prayers with his. When he arose, 
he bent his way, paying little attention to us, towards the 
northern part of the island. As I knew that he was not only 
ignorant of the spot where the body of Virginia had been 
deposited, but even of the fact that it had been recovered 
from the waves, I asked him why he had offered up his prayer 
at the foot of those bamboos. He answered,—“ We have been 
there so often.” 

He continued his course until we reached the borders of 
the forest, when night came on. I set him the example of 
taking some nourishment, and prevailed on him to do the same; 
and we slept upon the grass, at the foot of a tree. The next 
day I thought he seemed disposed to retrace his steps ; for, 
after having gazed a considerable time from the plain upon 
the church of the Shaddock Grove, with its long avenues of 
bamboos, he made a movement as if to return home ; but sud¬ 
denly plunging into the forest, he directed his course towards 
the north. I guessed what was his design, and I endeavored, 
but in vain, to dissuade him from it. About noon we arrived 
at the quarter of Golden Dust. He rushed down to the sea¬ 
shore, opposite to the spot where the Saint-Geran had been 
wrecked. At the sight of the isle of Amber, and its channel, 
then smooth as a mirror, he exclaimed,—“ Virginia! oh, my 
dear Virginia ! ” and fell senseless. Domingo and I carried 
him into the woods, where we had some difficulty in recovering 
him. As soon as he regained his senses, he wished to return 
to the sea-shore; but we conjured him not to renew his own 
anguish and ours by such cruel remembrances, and he took 
another direction. During a whole week he sought every spot 
where he had once wandered with the companion of his child¬ 
hood. He traced the path by which she had gone to intercede 
for the slave of the Black River. He gazed again upon the 
banks of the river of the Three Breasts, where she had rested 
herself when unable to walk further, and upon the part of the 
wood where they had lost their way. All the haunts, which 
recalled to his memory the anxieties, the sports, the repasts, 
the benevolence of her he loved,—the river of the Sloping 
Mountain, my house, the neighboring cascade, the papaw tree 
she had planted, the grassy fields in which she loved to run, 
the openings of the forest where she used to sing, all in succes 
sion called forth his tears; and those very echoes which had sc 
often resounded with their mutual shouts of joy, now repeated 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


99 

only these accents of despair, — “ Virginia 1 oh, my dear 
Virginia! ” 

During this savage and wandering life, his eyes became 
sunk and hollow, his skin assumed a yellow tint, and his health 
rapidly declined. Convinced that our present sufferings 
are rendered more acute by the bitter recollection of bygone 
pleasures, and that the passions gather strength in solitude, I 
resolved to remove my unfortunate friend from those scenes 
which recalled the remembrance of his loss, and to lead him to 
a more busy part of the island. With this view, I conducted 
him to the inhabited part of the elevated quarter of Williams, 
which he had never visited, and where the busy pursuits of 
agriculture and commerce ever occasioned much bustle and 
variety. Numbers of carpenters were employed in hewing 
down and squaring trees, while others were sawing them into 
planks ; carriages were continually passing and repassing on 
the roads ; numerous herds of oxen and troops of horses were 
feeding on those widespread meadows, and the whole country 
was dotted with the dwellings of man. On some spots the 
elevation of the soil permitted the culture of many of the plants 
of Europe: the yellow ears of ripe corn waved upon the plains; 
strawberry plants grew in the openings of the woods, and the 
roads were bordered by hedges of rose-trees. The freshness 
of the air, too, giving tension to the nerves, was favorable to 
the health of Europeans. From those heights, situated near 
the middle of the island, and surrounded by extensive forests, 
neither the sea, nor Port Louis, nor the church of the Shaddock 
Grove, nor any other object associated with the remembrance 
of Virginia could be discerned. Even the mountains, which 
present various shapes on the side of Port Louis, appear from 
hence like a long promontory, in a straight and perpendicular 
line, from which arise lofty pyramids of rock, whose summits 
are enveloped in the clouds. 

Conducting Paul to these scenes, I kept him continually in 
action, walking with him in rain and sunshine, by day and by 
night. I sometimes wandered with him into the depths of the 
forests, or led him over untilled grounds, hoping that change 
of scene and fatigue might divert his mind from its gloomy 
meditations. But the soul of a lover finds everywhere the 
traces of the beloved object. Night and day, the calm of soli¬ 
tude and the tumult of crowds, are to him the same; time itself, 
which casts the shade of oblivion over so many other remem¬ 
brances, in vain would tear that tender and sacred recollec¬ 
tion from the heart. The needle, when touched by the load- 


loo 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


stone, however it may have been moved from its position, is 
no sooner left to repose, than it returns to the pole of its at' 
traction. So, when I inquired of Paul, as we wandered amidst 
the plains of Williams, — “ Where shall we now go ? ” he 
pointed to the north, and said, “Yonder are our mountains; 
let us return home.” 

I now saw that all the means I took to divert him from his 
melancholy were fruitless, and that no resource was left but 
an attempt to combat his passion by the arguments which rea¬ 
son suggested. I answered him,—“Yes, there are the moun¬ 
tains where once dwelt your beloved Virginia ; and here is 
the picture you gave her, and which she held, when dying, to 
her heart—that heart, which even in its last moments only 
beat for you.” I then presented to Paul the little portrait 
which he had given to Virginia on the borders of the cocoa- 
tree fountain. At this sight a gloomy joy overspread his coun¬ 
tenance. He eagerly seized the picture with his feeble hands, 
and held it to his lips. His oppressed bosom seemed ready 
to burst with emotion, and his eyes were filled with tears which 
had no power to flow. 

“ My son,” said I, “ listen to one who is your friend, who 
j/as the friend of Virginia, and who, in the bloom of your hopes, 
has often endeavored to fortify your mind against the unfore¬ 
seen accidents of life. What do you deplore with so much 
bitterness ? Is it your own misfortunes, or those of Virginia, 
which affect you so deeply ? 

“Your own misfortunes are indeed severe. You have lost 
the most amiable of girls, who would have grown up to woman¬ 
hood a pattern to her sex, one who sacrified her own interests 
to yours : who preferred you to all that fortune could bestow, 
and considered you as the only recompense worthy of her 
virtues. 

“ But might not this very object, from whom you expected 
the purest happiness, have proved to you a source of the most 
cruel distress ? She had returned poor and disinherited ; all 
you could henceforth have partaken with her was your labor. 
Rendered more delicate by her education, and more courage¬ 
ous by her misfortunes, you might have beheld her every day 
sinking beneath her efforts to share and lighten your fatigues. 
Had she brought you children, they would only have served 
to increase her anxieties and your own, from the difficulty of 
sustaining at once your aged parents and your infant family. 

“ Very likely you will tell me that the governor would have 
helped you; but how do you know that in a colony whose 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


101 

governors are so frequently changed, you would have had 
others like Monsieur de la Bourdonnais ?—that one might not 
have been sent destitute of good feeling and of morality ?— 
that your young wife, in order to procure some miserable pit* 
tance, might not have been obliged to seek his favor ? Had 
she been weak you would have been to be pitied ; and if she 
had remained virtuous, you would have continued poor : forced 
even to consider yourself fortunate if, on account of the beauty 
and virtue of your wife, you had not to endure persecution 
from those who had promised you protection. 

“ It would still have remained to you, you may say, to 
have enjoyed a pleasure independent of fortune, that of 
protecting a beloved being, who, in proportion to her own 
helplessness, had more attached herself to you. You may 
fancy that your pains and sufferings would have served to en¬ 
dear you to each other, and that your passion would have 
gathered strength from your mutual misfortunes. Undoubtedly 
virtuous love does find consolation even in such melancholy 
retrospects. But Virginia is no more ; yet those persons still 
live, whom, next to yourself, she held most dear; her mother, 
and your own : your inconsolable affliction is bringing them 
both to the grave. Place your happiness as she did hers, in 
affording them succor. My son, beneficence is the happiness 
of the virtuous: there is no greater or more certain enjoyment 
on the earth. Schemes of pleasure, repose, luxuries, wealth, 
and glory are not suited to man, weak, wandering, and transi¬ 
tory as he is. See how rapidly one step towards the acquisi¬ 
tion of fortune has precipitated us all to the lowest abyss of 
misery! You were opposed to it, it is true; but who would 
not have thought that Virginia’s voyage would terminate in her 
happiness and your own ? an invitation from a rich and aged 
relation, the advice of a wise governor, the approbation of the 
whole colony, and the well-advised authority of her confessor, 
decided the lot of Virginia. Thus do we run to our ruin, de¬ 
ceived even by the prudence of those who watch over us: it 
would be better, no doubt, not to believe them, nor even to 
listen to the voice or lean on the hopes of a deceitful world. 
But all men,—those you see occupied in these plains, those 
who go abroad to seek their fortunes, and those in Europe who 
enjoy repose from the labors of others, are liable to reverses! 
not one is secure from losing, at some period, all that he most 
values,—greatness, wealth, wife, children, and friends. Most 
of these would have their sorrow increased by the remembrance 
of their pwn imprudence. But you have npthing with which 


102 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


you can reproach yourself. You have been faithful in your 
love. In the bloom of youth, by not departing from the dic¬ 
tates of nature, you evinced the wisdom of a sage. Your 
views were just, because they were pure, simple, and disinter¬ 
ested. You had, besides, on Virginia, sacred claims which 
nothing could countervail. You have lost her: but it is 
neither your own imprudence, nor your avarice, nor your 
false wisdom which has occasioned this misfortune, but 
the will of God, who has employed the passions of others 
to snatch from you the object of your love ; God, from 
whom you derive everything, who knows what is most fitting 
for you, and whose wisdom has not left you any cause for the 
repentance and despair which succeed the calamities that are 
brought upon us by ourselves. 

“Vainly, in your misfortunes, do you say to yourself ‘I have 
not deserved them.’ Is it then the calamity of Virginia—her 
death and her present condition that you deplore ? She has 
undergone the fate allotted to all,—to high birth, to beauty, 
and even to empires themselves. The life of man, with all its 
projects, may be compared to a tower, at whose summit is 
death. When your Virginia was born, she was condemned to 
die ; happily for herself, she is released from life before losing 
her mother, or yours, or you ; saved, thus, from undergoing 
pangs worse than those of death itself. 

“ Learn then, my son, that death is a benefit to all men: it 
is the night of that restless day we call by the name of life. 
The diseases, the griefs, the vexations, and the fears, which 
perpetually embitter our life as long as we possess it, molest us 
no more in the sleep of death. If you inquire into the history 
of those men who appear to have been the happiest, you will 
find that they have bought their apparent felicity very dear; 
public consideration, perhaps, by domestic evils; the rare hap¬ 
piness of being beloved, by continual sacrifices ; and often, at 
the expiration of a life devoted to the good of others, they see 
themselves surrounded only by false friends, and ungrateful re¬ 
lations. But Virginia was happy to her very last moment. 
When with us, she was happy in partaking of the gifts of nature ; 
when far from us, she found enjoyment in the practice of virtue ; 
and even at the terrible moment in which we saw her perish, 
she still had cause for self-gratulation. For, whether she cast 
her eyes on the assembled colony, made miserable by her ex¬ 
pected loss, or on you, my son, who, with so much intrepidity, 
were endeavoring to save her, she must have seen how dear 
she was tQ all. fier mind was fortified against th§ future by 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


I03 

the remembrance of her innocent life ; and at that moment she 
received the reward which Heaven reserves for virtue,—a. 
courage superior to danger. She met death with a serene 
countenance. 

“ My son ! God gives all the trials of life to virtue, in order 
to show that virtue alone can support them, and even find in 
them happiness and glory. When he designs for it an illustri¬ 
ous reputation, he exhibits it on a wide theatre, and contending 
with death. Then does the courage of virtue shine forth as an 
example, and the misfortunes to which it has been exposed re¬ 
ceive forever, from posterity, the tribute of their tears. This 
is the immortal monument reserved for virtue in a world where 
everything else passes away, and where the names, even of 
the greater number of kings themselves, are soon buried in 
eternal oblivion. 

“ Meanwhile Virginia still exists. My son, you see that 
everything changes on this earth, but that nothing is ever lost. 
No art of man can annihilate the smallest particle of matter ; 
can, then, that which has possessed reason, sensibility, affection, 
virtue and religion be supposed capable of destruction, when 
the very elements with which it is clothed are imperishable ? 
Ah! however happy Virginia may have been with us, she is 
now much more so. There is a God, my son ; it is unnecessary 
for me to prove it to you, for the voice of all nature loudly pro¬ 
claims it. The wickedness of mankind lead them to deny the 
existence-of a Being, whose justice they fear. But your mind 
is fully convinced of his existence, while his works are ever be¬ 
fore your eyes. Do you then believe that he would leave Vir¬ 
ginia without recompense ? Do you think that the same Power 
which inclosed her noble soul in a form so beautiful,—so like 
an emanation from itself, could not have saved her from the 
waves ?—that he who has ordained the happiness of man here, 
by laws unknown to you, cannot prepare a still higher degree 
of felicity for Virginia by other laws, of which you are equally 
ignorant ? Before we were born into this world, could we, do 
you imagine, even if we were capable of thinking at all, have 
formed any idea of our existence here ? And now that we are 
in the midst of this gloomy and transitory life, can we foresee 
what is beyond the tomb, or in what manner we shall be eman¬ 
cipated from it ? Does God, like man, need this little globe, 
the earth, as a theatre for the display of his intelligence and his 
goodness ?—and can he only dispose of human life in the terri¬ 
tory of death ? There is not, in the entire ocean, a single drop 
of water which is not peopled with living beings appertaining to 


104 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


man: and does there exist nothing for him in the heavens 
above his head ? What! is there no supreme intelligence, no 
divine goodness, except on this little spot where we are placed ? 
In those innumerable glowing fires,—in those infinite fields of 
light which surround them, and which neither storms nor 
darkness can extinguish, is there nothing but empty space and 
an eternal void ? If we, weak and ignorant as we are, might 
dare to assign limits to that Power from whom we have received 
everything, we might possibly imagine that we were placed on 
the very confines of his empire, where life is perpetually strug¬ 
gling with death, and innocence forever in danger from the 
power of tyranny! 

“ Somewhere, then, without doubt, there is another world, 
where virtue will receive its reward. Virginia is now happy. 
Ah ! if from the abode of angels she could hold communication 
with you, she would tell you, as she did when she bade you 
her last adieus,—' O, Paul! life is but a scene of trial. I have 
been obedient to the laws of nature, love, and virtue. I 
crossed the seas to obey the will of my relations ; I sacrificed 
wealth in order to keep my faith ; and I preferred the loss of 
life to disobeying the dictates of modesty. Heaven found 
that I had fulfilled my duties, and has snatched me forever 
from all the miseries I might have endured myself, and all I 
might have felt for the miseries of others. I am placed far 
above the reach of all human evils, and you pity me ! I am 
become pure and unchangeable as a particle of light* and you 
would recall me to the darkness of human life ! O, Paul! O, 
my beloved friend ! recollect those days of happiness, when in 
the morning we felt the delightful sensations excited by the 
unfolding beauties of nature ; when we seemed to rise with the 
sun to the peaks of those rocks, and then to spread with his rays 
over the bosom of the forests. We experienced a delight, the 
cause of which we could not comprehend. In the innocence of 
our desires, we wished to be all sight, to enjoy the rich colors of 
the early dawn ; all smell, to taste a thousand perfumes at 
once ; all hearing, to listen to the singing of our birds; and all 
hearts, to be capable of gratitude for those mingled blessings. 
Now, at the source of tne beauty whence flows all that is 
delightful upon earth, my soul intuitively sees, tastes, hears, 
touches, what before she could only be made sensible of 
through the medium of our weak organs. Ah ! what language 
can describe these shores of eternal bliss, which I inhabit for¬ 
ever ! All that infinite power and heavenly goodness could 
create to console the unhappy: all that the friendship of 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


10 5 

numberless beings, exulting in the same felicity can impart, we 
enjoy in unmixed perfection. Support, then, the trial which is 
now allotted to you, that you may heighten the happiness of 
your Virginia by love which will know no termination,—by a 
union which will be eternal. There I will calm your regrets, I 
will wipe away your tears. Oh, my beloved friend! my 
youthful husband ! raise your thoughts towards the infinite, to 
enable you to support the evils of a moment.’ ” 

My own emotion choked my utterance. Paul, looking at 
me steadfastly, cried,—“ She is no more ! she is no more ! ” and 
a long fainting fit succeeded these words of woe. When re¬ 
stored to himself, he said, “ Since death is a good, and since 
Virginia is happy, I will die too, and be united to Virginia.” 
Thus the motives of consolation I had offered, only served to 
nourish his despair. I was in the situation of a man who 
attempts to save a friend sinking in the midst of a flood, and 
who obstinately refuses to swim. Sorrow had completely 
overwhelmed his soul. Alas ! the trials of early years prepare 
man for the afflictions of after-life ; but Paul had never experi¬ 
enced any. 

I took him back to his own dwelling, where I found his 
mother and Madame de la Tour in a state of increased languor 
and exhaustion, but Margaret seemed to droop the most. 
Lively characters, upon whom petty troubles have but little 
effect, sink the soonest under great calamities. 

“ O my good friend, ” said Margaret, “ I thought last night 
I saw Virginia, dressed in white, in the midst of groves and 
delicious gardens. She said to me, ‘ I enjoy the most perfect 
happiness : ’ and then approaching Paul with a smiling air, she 
bore him away with her. While I was struggling to retain my son, 
I felt that I myself too was quitting the earth, and that I followed 
with inexpressible delight. I then wished to bid my friend 
farewell, when I saw' that she was hastening after me, accom¬ 
panied by Mary and Domingo. But the strangest circumstance 
remains yet to be told ; Madame de la Tour has this very night 
had a dream exactly like mine in every possible respect.” 

“ My dear friend,” I replied, “ nothing, I firmly believe, 
happens in this world without the permission of God. Future 
events, too, are sometimes revealed in dreams.” 

Madame de la Tour then related to me her dream which 
was exactly the same as Margaret’s in every particular; and 
as I had never observed in either of these ladies any propensity 
to superstition, I was struck with the singular coincidence of 
their dreams, and I felt convinced that they would soon be 


io6 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


realized. The belief that future events are sometimes revealed 
to us during sleep, is one that is widely diffused among the 
nations of the earth. The greatest men of antiquity have had 
faith in it; among whom may be mentioned Alexander the 
Great, Julius Caesar, the Scipios, the two Catos, and Brutus, 
none of whom were weak-minded persons. Both the Old and the 
New Testament furnish us with numerous instances of dreams 
that came to pass. As for myself, I need only, on this subject, 
appeal to my experience, as I have more than once had good 
reason to believe that superior intelligences, who interest them¬ 
selves in our welfare, communicate with us in these visions of 
the night. Things which surpass the light of human reason 
cannot be proved by arguments derived from that reason; but 
still, if the mind of man is an image of that of God, since man 
can make known his will to the ends of the earth by secret 
missives, may not the Supreme Intelligence which governs the 
universe employ similar means to attain a like end ? One 
friend consoles another by a letter, which, after passing through 
many kingdoms, and being in the hands of various individuals 
at enmity with each other, brings at last joy and hope to the 
breast of a single human being. May not in like manner the 
Sovereign Protector of innocence come in some secret way, to 
the help of a virtuous soul, which puts its trust in him alone ? 
Has he occasion to employ visible means to effect his purpose 
in this, whose ways are hidden in all his ordinary works ? 

Why should we doubt the evidence of dreams ? for what is 
our life, occupied as it is with vain and fleeting imaginations, 
other than a prolonged vision of the night ? 

Whatever may be thought of this in general, on the present 
occasion the dreams of my friends were soon realized. Paul 
expired two months after the death of his Virginia, whose name 
dwelt on his lips in his expiring moments. About a week after 
the death of her son, Margaret saw her last hour approach with 
that serenity which virtue only can feel. She bade Madame 
de la Tour a most tender farewell, “ in the certain hope,’’ she 
said, “of a delightful and eternal re-union. Death is the 
greatest of blessings to us,” added she, “ and we ought to de¬ 
sire it. If life be a punishment, we should wish for its termin¬ 
ation ; if it be a trial, we should be thankful that it is short.” 

The governor took care of Domingo and Mary, who were 
no longer able to labor, and who survived their mistresses but 
a short time. As for poor Fidele, he pined to death, soon after 
he had lost his master. 

I afforded an asylum in my dwelling to Madame de la Tour, 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 


107 

who bore up under her calamities with incredible elevation of 
mind. She had endeavored to console Paul and Margaret 
till their last moments, as if she herself had no misfortunes of 
her own to bear. When they were no more, she used to talk 
to me every day of them as of beloved friends, who were still 
living near her. She survived them however, but one month. 
Far from reproaching her aunt for the afflictions she had 
caused, her benign spirit prayed to God to pardon her, and to 
appease that remorse which we heard began to torment her, 
as soon as she had sent Virginia away with so much inhu¬ 
manity. 

Conscience, that certain punishment of the guilty, visited 
with all its terrors the mind of this unnatural relation. So 
great was her torment, that life and death became equally 
insupportable to her. Sometimes she reproached herself with 
the untimely fate of her lovely niece, and with the death of 
her mother, which had immediately followed it. At other 
times she congratulated herself for having repulsed far from 
her two wretched creatures, who, she said, had both dishon¬ 
ored their family by their grovelling inclinations. Sometimes, 
at the sight of the many miserable objects with which Paris 
abounds, she would fly into a rage, and exclaim,—“ Why are 
not these idle people sent off to the colonies ? ” As for the 
notions of humanity, virtue, and religion, adopted by all na¬ 
tions, she said, they were only the inventions of their rulers, 
to serve political purposes. Then, flying all at once to the 
other extreme, she abandoned herself to superstitious terrors, 
which filled her with mortal fears. She would then give 
abundant alms to the wealthy ecclesiastics who governed her, 
beseeching them to appease the wrath of God by the sacrifice 
of her fortune,—as if the offering to Him of the wealth she 
had withheld from the miserable could please her Heavenly 
Father! In her imagination she often beheld fields of fire, 
with burning mountains, wherein hideous spectres wandered 
about, loudly calling on her by name. She threw herself at 
her confessor’s feet, imagining every description of agony and 
torture ; for Heaven—just Heaven, always sends to the cruel 
the most frightful views of religion and a future state. 

Atheist, thus, and fanatic in turn, holding both life and 
death in equal horror, she lived on tor several years. But what 
completed the torments of her miserable existence, was that 
very object to which she had sacrificed every natural affection. 
She was deeply annoyed at perceiving that her fortune must 
go, at her death, to relations whom she hated, ana she deter- 


io 8 PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 

mined to alienate as much of it as she could. They, however, 
taking advantage of her frequent attacks of low sjoirits, caused 
her to be secluded as a lunatic, and her affairs to be put into 
the hands of trustees. Her wealth, thus completed her ruin ; 
and, as the possession of it had hardened her own heart, so 
did its anticipation corrupt the hearts of those who coveted it 
from her. At length she died ; and, to crown her misery, she 
retained reason enough at last to be sensible that she was 
plundered and despised by the very persons whose opinions 
had been her rule of conduct during her whole life. 

On the same spot, and at the foot of the same shrubs as 
his Virginia, was deposited the body of Paul; and round about 
them lie the remains of their tender mothers and their faithful 
servants. No marble marks the spot of their humble graves, 
no inscription records their virtues ; but their memory is en¬ 
graven upon the hearts of those whom they have befriended, 
in indelible characters. Their spirits have no need of the 
pomp, which they shunned during their life ; but if they still 
take an interest in what passes upon earth, they no doubt love 
to wander beneath the roofs of these humble dwellings, inhab¬ 
ited by industrious virtue, to console poverty discontented with 
its lot, to cherish in the hearts of lovers the sacred flame of 
fidelity, and to inspire a taste for the blessings of nature, a 
love of honest labor, and a dread of the allurements of riches. 

The voice of the people, which is often silent with regard 
to the monuments raised to kings, has given to some parts of 
this island names which will immortalize the loss of Virginia. 
Near the isle of Amber, in the midst of sandbanks, is a spot 
called The Pass of the Saint-Geran, from the name of the 
vessel which was there lost. The extremity of that point of 
land which you see yonder, three leagues off, half covered 
with water, and which the Saint-Geran, could not double the 
night before the hurricane, is called the Cape of Misfortune; 
and before us, at the end of the valley, is the Bay of the Tomb, 
where Virginia was found buried in the sand ; as if the waves 
had sought to restore her corpse to her family, that they might 
render it the last sad duties on those shores where so many 
years of her innocent life had been passed. 

Joined thus in death, ye faithful lovers, who were so ten¬ 
derly united! unfortunate mothers! beloved family! these 
woods which sheltered you with their foliage,—these fountains 
which flowed for you,—these hill-sides upon which you reposed, 
still deplore your loss ! No one has since presumed to culti¬ 
vate that desolate spot of land, or to rebuild those humble 


PAUL AND VIRGINIA . 


T09 

cottages. Your goats are become wild: your orchards are 
destroyed ; your birds are all fled, and nothing is heard but the 
cry of the sparrow-hawk, as it skims in quest of prey around 
this rocky basin. As for myself, since I have ceased to be¬ 
hold you, I have felt friendless and alone, like a father bereft 
of his children, or a traveller who wanders by himself over the 
face of the earth.” 

Ending with these words, the good old man retired, bathed 
in tears; and my own, too, had flowed more than once during 
this melancholy recital. 


THE ENIX 








THE 


HISTORY OF RASSELAS, 

PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA. 


A. TALE, 


SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. 









CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Description of a Palace in a Valley. .««....». 7 

CHAPTER IT 

The Discontent of Rasselas in the Happy Valley... 9 

CHAPTER III. 

The Wants of him that wants Nothing.. 11 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Prince ®5 &riTNUES to grieve and muse.. .... 13 

CHAPTER V. 

Thf Prince Meditates his Escape ..15 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Dissertation on the Art of Flying.. .... 16 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Prince finds a Man of Learning. .. . 19 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The History of Imlac ....... ....... 20 

CHAPTER IX. 

The History of Imlac continued.... 23 

CHAPTER X. 

Imlac’s History continued. A Dissertation on 
Poetry ..... . . c . 25 












4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Pacs. 

Imlac’s Narrative continued. A Hint on Pilgrimage 27 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Story of Imlac continued. 29 

CHAPTER XIII, 

Rasselas Discovers the Means of Escape........... 33 

CHAPTER XIV. 


Rasselas and Imlac Receive an Unexpected Visit.. 34 
CHAPTER XV. 

The Prince and Princess leave the Valley, and see 


many Wonders, .. ... 35 

CHAPTER XVI. 

They enter Cairo, and find every man Happy. 37 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Prince associates with Young Men of Spirit 
and Gayety ... ......... _ ... 39 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

The Prince finds a Wise and Happy Man. .......... 40 

CHAPTER XIX. 

A Glimpse of Pastoral Life .. 42 

CHAPTER XX. 

The Danger of Prosperity -- .................... 43 

CHAPTER XXL 

The Happiness of Solitude. The Hermit’s History. 45 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Happiness of a Life led according to Nature, 47 

CHAPTER XXIII. 


The Prince and his Sister divide between them the 
Work of Observation .. ........................ 









CONTENTS. 


% 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Page. 

The Prince Examines the Happiness of High Stations 49 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The Princess Pursues her Inquiry with more Dili¬ 
gence than Success........ .... 50 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

The Princess Continues her Remarks upon Private 
Life .... ... .,. ......... 53 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Disquisition upon Greatness ».... 54 

CHAPTER XXVIII, 

Rasselas and Nekeyah continue their Conversation 56 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The Debate of Marriage continued..... ........ 58 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Imlac enters, and changes the Conversation. 60 

CHAPTER XXXI, 

They Visit the Pyramids ......«... 62 

CHAPTER XXXII. 


They enter the Pyramid ....... 64 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The Princess meets with an unexpected Misfortune 65 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

They return to Cairo without Pekuah....... 66 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

The Princess languishes for want of Pekuah. 68 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 


Pekuah is still Remembered. The progress of Sorrow 71 








6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Pace. 


The Princess hears news of Pekuah... 7 2 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The Adventures of the Lady Pekuah. 73 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

The Adventures of Pekuah continued . 76 

CHAPTER XL. 

The History of a Man of Learning.... 80 

CHAPTER XLI. 

The Astronomer discovers the cause of his Uneasi¬ 
ness. ... ........... - ... ... 81 

CHAPTER XLII. 

The Opinion of the Astronomer is explained and 
justified ......... 82 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

The Astronomer leaves Imlac his Directions. 83 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

The Dangerous Prevalence of Imagination. 84 
CHAPTER XLV. 

They Discourse with an Old Man.86 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

The Princess and Pekuah visit the Astronomer.... 88 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

The Prince enters, and brings a new Topic. .7777777 92 
CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Imlac discourses on the Nature of the Soul. 77 .. 95 
CHAPTER XLIX. 

The Conclusion, in which nothing is Concluded .... 98 












THE HISTORY OF RASSELAS, 

JJrincc of ^bsssinia. 


CHAPTER I. 

Description of a palace in a valley. 

Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and 
pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that 
age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies 
of the present day will be supplied by the morrow; attend to 
the history of Rasselas, prince of Abyssinia. 

Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty emperor, in whose 
dominions the Father of Waters begins his course; whose 
bounty pours down the streams of plenty, and scatters over 
half the world the harvests of Egypt. 

According to the custom which has descended from age to 
age among the monarchs of the torrid zone, Rasselas was con¬ 
fined in a private palace, with the other sons and daughters 
of Abyssinian royalty, till the order of succession should call 
him to the throne. 

The place, which the wisdom or policy of antiquity had des¬ 
tined for the residence of the Abyssinian princes, was a 
spacious valley in the kingdom of Amhara, surrounded on every 
side by mountains, of which the summits overhang the middle 
part. The only passage by which it could be entered was a 
cavern that passed under a rock, of which it has long been dis¬ 
puted whether it was the work of nature or of human industry. 
The outlet of the cavern was concealed by a thick wood, and 
the mouth which opened into the valley was closed with gates 
of iron forged by the artificers of ancient days, so massy that 
no nian covdd without the help of engines open or shut them. 



6 


RASSELAS . 


From the mountains on every side, rivulets descended that 
filled all the valley with verdure and fertility, and formed a lake 
in the middle, inhabited by fish of every species, and frequented 
by every fowl whom nature has taught to dip the wing in water. 
This lake discharged its superfluities by a stream which en¬ 
tered a dark cleft of the mountain on the northern side, and 
fell with dreadful noise from precipice to precipice till it was 
heard no more. 

The sides of the mountains were covered with trees, the 
banks of the brooks were diversified with flowers; every 
blast shook spices from the rocks, and every month dropped 
fruits upon the ground. All animals that bite the grass or 
browse the shrub, whether wild or tame, wandered in this ex¬ 
tensive circuit, secured from beasts of prey by the mountains 
which confined them. On one part were flocks and herds feed¬ 
ing in the pastures, on another all the beasts of chase frisking 
in the lawns; the sprightly kid was bounding on rocks, the 
subtle monkey frolicking in the trees, and the solemn elephant 
reposing in the shade. All the diversities of the world were 
brought together, the blessings of nature were collected, and 
its evils extracted and excluded. 

The valley, wide and fruitful, supplied its inhabitants with 
the necessaries of life, and all delights and superfluities were 
added at the annual visit which the emperor paid his children, 
when the iron gate was opened to the sound of music ; and 
during eight days every one that resided in the valley was re¬ 
quired to propose whatever might contribute to make seclusion 
pleasant, to fill up the vacancies of attention, and lessen the 
tediousness of time. Every desire was immediately granted. 
All the artificers of pleasure were called to gladden the festivity; 
the musicians exerted the power of harmony, and the dancers 
showed their activity before the princes, in hope that they 
should pass their lives in this blissful captivity; to which those 
only were admitted whose performance was thought able to 
add novelty to luxury. Such was the appearance of security 
and delight, which this retirement afforded, that they, to whom 
it was new, always desired that it might be perpetual; and as 
those, on whom the iron gate had once closed, were never suf¬ 
fered to return, the effect of longer experience could not be 
known. Thus every year produced new schemes of delight, 
and new competitors for imprisonment. 

The palace stood on an eminence raised about thirty paces 
above the surface of the lake. It was divided into many squares 
or courts, built with greater or less magnificence, according to 


EASSELAS. 


9 

the rank of those for whom they were designed. The roofs 
were turned into arches of massy stone, joined by a cement 
that grew harder by time, and the building stood from century 
to century deriding the solstitial rains and equinoctial hurri¬ 
canes, without need of reparation. 

This house, which was so large as to be fully known to none 
but some ancient officers who successively inherited the secrets 
of the place, was built as if suspicion herself had dictated the 
plan. To every room there was an open and secret passage, 
every square had a communication with the rest, either from 
the upper storeys by private galleries, or by subterranean pas¬ 
sages from the lower apartments. Many of the columns had 
unsuspected cavities, in which a long race of monarchs had 
deposited their treasures. They then closed up the opening 
with marble, which was never to be removed but in the utmost 
exigences of the kingdom : and recorded their accumulations 
in a book, which was itself concealed in a tower not entered 
but by the emperor attended by the prince who stood next in 
succession, 


CHAPTER II. 

The discontent of Rasselas in the happy valley. 

Here the sons and daughters of Abyssinia lived only to 
know the soft vicissitudes of pleasure and repose, attended by 
all that were skilful to delight, and gratified with whatever the 
senses can enjoy. They wandered in gardens of fragrance, and 
slept in the fortresses of security. Every art was practiced to 
make them pleased with their own condition. The sages who 
instructed them told them of nothing but the miseries of public 
life, and described all beyond the mountains as regions of 
calamity, where discord was always raging, and where man 
preyed upon man. 

To heighten their opinion of their own felicity, they were 
daily entertained with songs, the subject of which was the 
happy valley. Their appetites were excited by frequent enu¬ 
merations of different enjoyments ; and revelry and merriment 
was the business of every hour from the dawn of morning to 
the close of even. 

These methods were generally successful : few of the 
princes had ever wished to enlarge their bounds, but passed 


IO 


RASSELAS. 


their lives in full conviction that they had all within their reach 
that art or nature could bestow, and pitied those whom fate 
had excluded from this seat of tranquillity, as the. sport of 
chance and the slaves of misery. 

Thus they rose in the morning and lay down at night, 
pleased with each other and with themselves ; all but Rasselas, 
who in the twenty-sixth year of his age began to withdraw him¬ 
self from their pastimes and assemblies, and to delight in soli¬ 
tary walks and silent meditation. He often sat before tables 
covered with luxury, and forgot to taste the dainties that were 
placed before him ; he rose abruptly in the midst of the song 
and hastily retired beyond the sound of music. His attendants 
observed the change and endeavored to renew his love of 
pleasure ; he neglected their officiousness, and repulsed their 
invitations, and spent day after day on the banks of rivulets 
sheltered with trees, where he sometimes listened to the birds 
in the branches, sometimes observed the fish playing in the 
stream, and anon cast his eyes upon the pastures and moun¬ 
tains filled with animals, of which some were biting the herbage, 
and some sleeping among the bushes. 

This singularity of his humor made him much observed. 
One of the sages, in whose conversation he had formerly de¬ 
lighted, followed him secretly, in hope of discovering the cause 
of his disquiet. Rasselas, who knew not that any one was 
near him, having for some time fixed his eyes upon the goats, 
that were browsing among the rocks, began to compare their 
condition with his own. 

“ What,” said he, “ makes the difference between man and 
all the rest of the animal creation ? Every beast that strays 
beside me has the same corporal necessities with myself ; he is 
hungry and crops the grass, he is thirsty and drinks the stream, 
his thirst and hunger are appeased, he is satisfied and sleeps; 
he rises again and is hungry, he is again fed and is at rest. I 
am hungry and thirsty like* him, but when thirst and hunger 
cease I am not at rest; I am, like him, pained with want, but 
am not, like him, satisfied with fulness. The intermediate 
hours are tedious and gloomy ; I long again to be hungry, that I 
may again quicken my attention. The birds pick the berries or 
the corn, and fly away to the groves, where they sit in seeming 
happiness on the branches, and waste their lives in tuning one 
unvaried series of sounds. I likewise can call the lutanist and 
the singer, but the sounds that pleased me yesterday weary me 
to-day, and will grow yet more wearisome to-morrow. I can 
discover within me no power of perception which is not glutted 


RASSELAS. 


It 


with its proper pleasure, yet I do not feel myself delighted. 
Man surely has some latent sense for which this place affords no 
gratification; or he has some desires, distinct from sense, 
which must be satisfied before he can be happy.” 

After this he lifted up his head, and, seeing the moon ris¬ 
ing walked towards the palace. As he passed through the 
fields, and saw the animals around him, “ Ye,” said he, u are 
happy, and need not envy me that walk thus among you, bur- 
* dened with myself; nor do I, ye gentle beings, envy your feli¬ 
city ; for it is not the felicity of man. I have many distresses 
from which ye are free: I fear pain when I do not feel it ; I 
sometimes shrink at evils recollected, and sometimes start at 
evils anticipated. Surely the equity of Providence has balanced 
peculiar sufferings with peculiar enjoyments.” 

With observations like these the prince amused himself as 
he returned; uttering them with a plaintive voice, yet with a 
look that discovered him to feel some complacence in his own 
perspicacity, and to receive some solace of the miseries of life 
from consciousness of the delicacy with which he felt, and the 
eloquence with which he bewailed them. He mingled cheer¬ 
fully in the diversions of the evening, and all rejoiced to find 
that his heart was lightened. 


CHAPTER III. 

The wants of him that wants nothings 

On the next day his old instructor, imagining that he had 
now made himself acquainted with hts disease of mind, was in 
hope of curing it by counsel, and officiously sought an oppor¬ 
tunity of conference ; which the prince having long considered 
him as one whose intellects were exhausted, was not very will¬ 
ing to afford : “ Why,” said he, “ does this man thus intrude 
upon me ; shall I -be never suffered to forget those lectures 
which pleased only while they were new,and to become new again 
must be forgotten ? ” He then walked into the wood, and com¬ 
posed himself to his usual meditations ; when,before his thoughts 
had taken any settled form, he perceived his pursuer at his side, 
and was at first prompted by his impatience to go hastily away ; 
but being unwilling to offend a man whom he had once rever¬ 
enced and still loved, he invited him to sit down with him on 
thj bank 


12 


EASSELAS. 


The old man, thus encouraged, began to lament the change 
which had been lately observed in the prince, and to inquire 
why he so often retired from the pleasures of the palace, to 
loneliness and silence? “I fly from pleasures,” said the 
prince, “ because pleasure has ceased to please; I am lonely 
because I am miserable, and am unwilling to cloud with my 
presence the happiness of others.” “ You, sir,” said the sage, 
“ are the first who has complained of misery in the happy valley, 
I hope to convince you that your complaints have no real 
cause. You are here in full possession of all that the emperor 
of Abyssinia can bestow ; here is neither labor to be endured 
nor danger to be dreaded, yet here is all that labor or danger 
can procure or purchase. Look round and tell me which of 
your wants is without supply; if you want nothing how are you 
unhappy ? ” 

“ That I want nothing,” said the prince, “ nor that I know 
not what I want, is the cause of my complaint. If I had any 
known want, I should have a certain wish ; that wish would ex¬ 
cite endeavor, and I should not then repine to see the sun 
move so slowly towards the western mountain, or lament when 
the day breaks, and sleep will no longer hide me from myself. 
When I see the kids and the lambs chasing one another, I fancy 
that I should be happy if I had something to pursue. But, 
possessing all that I can want, I find one day and one hour ex¬ 
actly like another, except that the latter is still more tedious 
than the former. Let your experience inform me how the day 
may now seem as short as in my childhood, while nature was 
yet fresh, and every moment showed me what I never had ob¬ 
served before. I have already enjoyed too much ; give me 
something to desire.” 

The old man was surprised at this new species of affliction, 
and knew not what to reply, yet was unwilling to be silent. 
“Sir,” said he, “ if you had seen the miseries of the world, you 
would know how to value your present state.” “ Now,” said 
the prince, “you have given me something to desire ; I shall 
long to see the miseries of the world, since the sight of them is 
necessary to happiness.” 


EASSELAo. 


*3 


CHAPTER IV. 


The Prince continues to grieve and muse. 


At this time the sound of music proclaimed the hour of repast, 
and the conversation was concluded. The old man went away 
sufficiently discontented, to find that his reasonings had pro¬ 
duced the only conclusion which they were intended to pre¬ 
vent. But in the decline of life shame and grief are of short 
duration ; whether it be that we bear easily what we have 
borne long ; or that, finding ourselves in age less regarded, we 
less regard others ; or, that we look with slight regard upon 
afflictions to which we know that the hand of death is about to 
put an end. 

The prince, whose views were extended to a wider space, 
could not speedily quiet his emotions. He had been before 
terrified at the length of life which nature promised him, be¬ 
cause he considered that in a long time much must be endured ; 
he now rejoiced in his youth, because in many years much 
might be done. 

This first beam of hope, that had been ever darted into his 
mind, rekindled youth in his cheeks, and doubled the lustre of 
his eyes. He was fired with the desire of doing something, 
though he knew not yet with distinctness either end or means. 

He was now no longer gloomy and unsocial; but, consider¬ 
ing himself as master of a secret stock of happiness, which he 
could enjoy only by concealing it, he affected to be busy in all 
schemes of diversion, and endeavored to make others pleased 
with the state of which he himself was weary. But pleasures 
never can be so multiplied or continued as not to leave much 
of life unemployed ; there were many hours, both of the night 
and day, which he could spend without suspicion in solitary 
thought. The load of life was much lightened; he went ea¬ 
gerly into the assemblies, because he supposed the frequency of 
his presence necessary to the success of his purposes; he re¬ 
tired gladly to privacy, because he had now a subject of thought. 

His chief amusement was to picture to himself that world 
which he had never seen ; to place himself in various con¬ 
ditions ; to be entangled in imaginary difficulties, and to be 
engaged in wild adventures; but his benevolence always 


RASSELAS. 


14 

terminated his projects in the relief of distress, the detection of 
fraud, the defeat of oppression, and the diffusion of happiness. 

Thus passed twenty months of the life of Rasselas. He 
busied himself so intensely in visionary bustle that he forgot 
his real solitude ; and, amidst hourly preparations for the var¬ 
ious incidents of human affairs, neglected to consider by what 
means he should mingle with mankind. 

One day, as he was sitting on a bank, he feigned to himself 
an orphan’virgin robbed of her little portion by a treacherous 
lover, and crying after him for restitution and redress. So 
strongly was the image impressed upon his mind that he started 
up in the maid’s defence, and ran forward to seize the plun¬ 
derer, with all the eagerness of real pursuit. Fear naturally 
quickens the flight of guilt. Rasselas could not catch the fugi¬ 
tive with his utmost efforts ; but, resolving to weary, by per¬ 
severance, him whom he could not surpass in speed, he pressed 
on till the foot of the mountain stopped his course. 

Here he recollected himself, and smiled at his own useless 
impetuosity. Then, raising his eyes to the mountain, “ This,” 
said he, “ is the fatal obstacle that hinders at once the enjoy¬ 
ment of pleasure, and the exercise of virtue. How long is it 
that my hopes and wishes have flown beyond this boundary of 
my life, which yet I never have attempted to surmount! ” 

Struck with this reflection, he sat down to muse; and re¬ 
membered, that since he first resolved to escape from his con¬ 
finement, the sun had passed twice over him in his annual 
course. He now felt a degree of regret with which he had 
never been before acquainted. He considered how much 
might have been done in the time which had passed, and left 
nothing real behind it. He compared twenty months with the 
life of man. “ In life,” said he, “ is not to be counted the 
ignorance of infancy, or imbecility of age. We are long before 
we are able to think, and we soon cease from the power of act¬ 
ing. The true period of human existence may be reasonably 
estimated at forty years, of which I have mused away the four 
and twentieth part. What I have lost was certain, for I have 
certainly possessed it; but of twenty months to come who can 
assure me ? ” 

The consciousness of his own folly pierced him deeply, and 
he was long before he could be reconciled to himself. “ The 
rest of my time,” said he, “ has been lost by the crime or folly 
of my ancestors and the absurd institutions of my country; I 
remember it with disgust, yet without remorse : but the months 
that have passed singe new light darted into my soul, since I 


XASSELAS. 


*5 

formed a scheme of reasonable felicity, have been squandered 
by my own fault. I have lost that which can never be restored; 
I have seen the sun rise and set for twenty months, an idle 
gazer on the light of heaven: in this time the birds have left 
the nest of their mother, and committed themselves to the 
woods and to the skies : the kid lias forsaken the teat, and 
learned by degrees to climb the rocks in quest of independent 
sustenance. I only have made no advances, but am still help¬ 
less and ignorant. The moon, by more than twenty changes, 
admonished me of the flux of life ; the stream that rolled before 
my feet upbraided my inactivity. I sat feasting on intellectual 
luxury, regardless alike of the examples of the earth, and of the 
instructions of the planets. Twenty months are passed, who 
shall restore them? ” 

These sorrowful meditations fastened upon his mind; he 
passed four months in resolving to lose no more time in idle 
resolves ; and was awakened to more vigorous exertion by 
hearing a maid, who had broken a porcelain cup, remark, that 
what cannot be repaired is not to be regretted. 

This was obvious ; and Rasselas reproached himself that 
he had not discovered it, having not known or not considered 
how many useful hints are obtained by chance, and how often 
the mind, hurried by her own ardor to distant views, neglects 
the truths that lie open before her. He, for a few hours, re¬ 
gretted his regret, and from that time bent his whole mind 
upon the means of escaping from the valley of Jiappiness. 


CHAPTER V. 

The "'Mnce Meditates his Escape. 

He now found that it would be very difficult to effect that 
which it was very easy to suppose effected. When he looked 
round about him, he saw himself confined by the bars of nature, 
which had never yet been broken, and by the gate, through 
which none that once had passed it were ever able to return. 
He was now impatient as an eagle in the grate. He passed 
week after week in clambering the mountains, to see if there 
was any aperture which the bushes might conceal, but found all 
the summits inaccessible by their prominence. The iron gate 
he despaired to open ; for it was not only secured with all the 
powers of art, but was always watched by successive sentinels, 


EASSELAS. 


16 

and was by its position exposed to the perpetual observation of 
all the inhabitants. 

He then examined the cavern through which the waters of 
the lake were discharged; and, looking down at a time when 
the sun shone strongly upon its mouth, he discovered it to be 
full of broken rocks, which, though they permitted the stream 
to flow through many narrow passages, would stop anybody of 
solid bulk. He returned discouraged and dejected; but, hav¬ 
ing now known the blessing of hope, resolved never to despair. 

In these fruitless searches he spent ten months. The tim6, 
however, passed cheerfully away: in the morning he rose with 
new hope, in the evening applauded his own diligence, and in 
the night slept sound after his fatigue. He met a thousand 
amusements which beguiled his labor and diversified his 
thoughts. He discerned the various instincts of animals and 
properties of plants, and found the place replete with wonders, 
of which he purposed to solace himself with the contemplation, 
if he should never be able to accomplish his flight; rejoicing 
that his endeavors, though yet unsuccessful, had supplied him 
with a source of inexhaustible inquiry. 

But hie original curiosity was not yet abated ; he resolved 
to obtain some knowledge of the ways of men. His wish still 
continued, but his hope grew less. He ceased to survey any 
longer the walls of his prison, and spared to search by new 
toils for interstices which he knew could not be found, yet deter¬ 
mined to keep his design always in view, and lay hold on any 
expedient that time should offer. 


CHAPTER VL 

A Dissertation on the Art of Flying, 

Among the artists that had been allured into the happy 
valley, to labor for the accommodation and pleasure of its in¬ 
habitants, was a man eminent for his knowledge of the me¬ 
chanic powers, who had contrived many engines both of use 
and recreation. By a wheel which the stream turned he forced 
the water into a tower, whence it was distributed to all the 
apartments of the palace. He erected a pavilion in the garden, 
around which he kept the air always cool by artificial showers. 
One of the groves, appropriated to the ladies, was ventilated 
by fans, to which the rivulet that ran through it gave a con¬ 
stant motion; the instruments of soft music were placed at 


RASSZLAS. 


t 7 

propel* distances, of which some played by the impulse of the 
wind, and some by the power of the stream. 

This artist was sometimes visited by Rasselas, who was 
pleased with every kind of knowledge, imagining that the time 
would come when all his acquisitions should be of use to him 
in the open world. He came one day to amuse himself in his 
usual manner, and found the master busy in building a sailing 
chariot: he saw that the design was practicable upon a level 
surface, and with expressions of great esteem solicited its com¬ 
pletion. The workman was pleased to find himself so much 
regarded by the prince, and resolved to gain yet higher honors. 
“ Sir,” said he, “ you have seen but a small part of what the 
mechanic sciences can perform. I have been long of opinion, 
that, instead of the tardy conveyance of ships and chariots, 
man might use the swifter migration of wings ; that the fields of 
air are open to knowledge, and that only ignorance and idle¬ 
ness need crawl upon the ground.” 

This hint rekindled the prince’s desire of passing the moun¬ 
tains : having seen what the mechanist had already performed, 
he was willing to fancy that he could do more; yet resolved to 
inquire further, before he suffered hope to afflict him by disap¬ 
pointment. “ I am afraid,” said he to the artist, “ that your im¬ 
agination prevails over your skill, and that you now tell me 
rather what you wish than what you know. Every animal has 
his element assigned him ; the birds have the air, and man and 
beasts the earth.” “ So,” replied the mechanist, fishes have 
the water, in which yet beasts can swim by nature, and men by 
art. He that can swim needs not despair to fly; to swim is 
to fly in a grosser fluid, and to fly is to swim in a subtler. We 
are only to proportion our power of resistance to the different 
density of matter through which we are to pass. You will be 
necessarily upborne by the air, if you can renew any impulse 
upon it faster than the air can recede from the pressure.” 

“ But the exercise of swimming,” said the prince, is “ very 
laborious ; the strongest limbs are soon wearied ; I am afraid 
the act of flying will be yet more violent; and wings will be of 
no great use unless we can fly further than we can swim.” 

“The labor of rising from the ground,” said the artist, 
“ will be great, as we see it in the heavier domestic fowls, but 
as we mount higher, the earth’s attraction and the body’s 
gravity will be gradually diminished, till we shall arrive at a 
region where the man will float in the air without any tendency 
to fall ; no care will then be necessary but to move forwards, 
which the gentlest impulse will effect. You, sir, whose curiosity 


IS 


RASSELAS 


is so extensive, will easily conceive with what pleasure a philoso¬ 
pher, furnished with wings, and hovering in the sky, would see 
the earth, and all its inhabitants, rolling beneath him, and pre¬ 
senting to him successively, by its diurnal motion, all the coun¬ 
tries within the same parallel. How must it amuse the pen¬ 
dent spectator to see the moving scene of land and ocean, 
cities and deserts ! To survey with equal serenity the marts 
of trade and the fields of battle ; mountains infested by bar¬ 
barians, and fruitful regions gladdened by plenty and lulled by 
peace ! How easily shall we then trace the Nile through all 
his passage ; pass over to distant regions, and examine the face 
of nature from one extremity to the other ! ” 

“ All this,” said the prince, “ is much to be desired ; but I 
am afraid that no man will be able to breathe in these regions 
of speculation and tranquillity. I have been told that respira¬ 
tion is difficult upon lofty mountains, yet from these precipices, 
though so high as to produce great tenuity of air, it is very 
easy to fall: therefore I suspect, that, from any height where 
life can be supported, there maybe danger of too quick descent.” 

“ Nothing,” replied the artist, “ will ever be attempted, if 
all possible objections must be first overcome. If you will 
favor my project, I will try the first flight at my own hazard. I 
have considered the structure of all volant animals, and find 
the folding continuity of the bat’s wings most easily accommo¬ 
dated to the human form. Upon this model I shall begin my 
task to-morrow : and in a year expect to tower in the air beyond 
the malice and pursuit of man. But I will work only on this 
condition, that the art shall not be divulged, and that you 
shall not require me to make wings for any but ourselves.” 

“ Why,” said Rasselas, “ should you envy others so great 
an advantage ? All skill ought to be exerted for universal 
good ; every man has owed much to others, and ought to repay 
the kindness that he has received.” 

“ If men were all virtuous,” returned the artist, “ I should 
with great alacrity teach them all to fly. But what would be the 
security of the good, if the bad could at pleasure invade them 
from the sky ? Against an army sailing through the clouds, 
neither walls, nor mountains, nor seas could afford any security. 
A flight of northern savages might hover in the wind, and light 
at once with irresistible violence upon the capital of a fruitful 
region that was rolling under them. Even this valley, the re¬ 
treat of princes, the abode of happiness, might be violated by 
the sudden descent of some of the naked nations that swarm 
on the coast of the southern sea.” 


#ASS£ZA$. 


*9 

The prince promised secrecy, and waited for the perform¬ 
ance, not wholly hopeless of success. He visited the work 
from time to time, observed its progress, and remarked many 
ingenious contrivances to facilitate motion, and unite levity 
with strength. The artist was every day more certain that he 
should leave vultures and eagles behind him, and the conta¬ 
gion of his confidence seized upon the prince. 

In a year the wings were finished ; and, on a morning ap- 
pc'nted, the maker appeared furnished for flight on a little pro¬ 
montory : he waved his pinions awhile to gather air, then 
leaped from his stand, and in an instant dropped into the lake. 
His wings, which were of no use in the air, sustained him in 
the water, and the prince drew him to land, half dead with 
terror and vexation. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The Prince finds a Man of Learning. 

The prince was not much afflicted by this disaster, having 
suffered himself to hope for a happier event, only because 
he had no other means of escape in view. He still persisted 
in his design to leave the happy valley by the first oppor¬ 
tunity. 

His imagination was now at a stand; he had no prospect 
of entering into the world; and, nothwithstanding all his en¬ 
deavors to support himself, discontent by degrees preyed upon 
him, and he began again to lose his thoughts in sadness, when 
the rainy season, which in these countries is periodical, made 
it inconvenient to wander in the woods. 

The rain continued longer and with more violence than had 
ever been known ; the clouds broke on the surrounding moun¬ 
tains, and the torrents streamed into the plain on every side, 
till the cavern was too narrow to discharge the water. The lake 
overflowed its banks, and all the level of the valley was covered 
with the inundation. The eminence on which the palace was 
built, and some other spots of rising ground, were all that the 
eye could now discover. The herds and flocks left the pas¬ 
tures, and both the wild beasts and the tame retreated to the 
mountains. 

This inundation confined all the princes to domestic 
amusements, and the attention of Rasselas was particularly 
seized by a poem, which Imlac rehearsed upon the various 


20 


JtASSELAS. 


conditions of humanity. He commanded the poet to attend 
him in his apartment, and recite his verses a second time ; 
then entering into familiar talk, he thought himself happy in 
having found a man who knew the world so well, and could so 
skilfully paint the scenes of life. He asked a thousand ques¬ 
tions about things, to which, though common to all other mor¬ 
tals, his confinement from childhood had kept him a stranger. 
The poet pitied his ignorance and loved his curiosity, and en¬ 
tertained him from day to day with novelty and instruction, so 
that the prince regretted the necessity of sleep, and longed till 
the morning should renew his pleasure. 

As they were sitting together the prince commanded Imlac 
to relate his history, and to tell by what accident he was forced, 
or by what motive induced, to close his life in the happy val¬ 
ley. As he was going to begin his narrative, Rasselas was 
called to a concert, and obliged to restrain his curiosity till the 
evening. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The History of Imlac. 

The close of the day is, in the regions of the torrid zone, 
the only season of diversion and entertainment, and it was 
therefore midnight before the music ceased, and the princes 
retired. Rasselas then called for his companion and required 
him to begin the story of his life. 

“ Sir,” said Imlac, “ my history will not be long : the life 
that is devoted to knowledge passes silently away, and is very 
little diversified by events. To talk in public, to think in soli¬ 
tude, to read and to hear, to inquire and answer inquiries, is 
the business of a scholar. He wanders about the world with¬ 
out pomp or terror, and is neither known nor valued but by 
men like himself. 

“ I was born in the kingdom of Goiama, at no great dis* 
tance from the fountain of the Nile. My father was a wealthy 
merchant, who traded between the inland countries of Afric 
and the ports of the Red Sea. He was honest, frugal, and 
diligent, but of mean sentiments and narrow comprehension • 
he desired only to be rich, and to conceal his riches, lest he 
should be spoiled by the governors of the province.” 

“ Surely,” said the prince, “ my father must be negligent of 
his charge, if any man in his dominions dares take that which 


EASSELAS. 


21 

belongs to another. Does he not know that kings are ac¬ 
countable for injustice permitted as well as clone ? If I were 
emperor, not the meanest of my subjects should be oppressed 
with impunity. My blood boils when I am told that a mer¬ 
chant durst not enjoy his honest gains for fear of losing them 
by the rapacity of power. Name the governor who robbed the 
people that I may declare his crimes to the emperor.” 

“Sir,” said Imlac, “your ardor is the natural effect of 
virtue animated by youth : the time will come when you will 
acquit your father, and perhaps hear with less impatience of 
the governor. Oppression is, in the Abyssinian dominions, 
neither frequent nor tolerated : but no form of government has 
yet been discovered, by which cruelty can be wholly prevented. 
Subordination supposes power on the one part, and subjection 
on the other, and if power be in the hands of men, it will some¬ 
times be abused. The vigilance of the supreme magistrate 
may do much, but much will still remain undone. He can 
never know all the crimes that are committed, and can seldom 
punish all that he knows.” 

“ This,” said the prince, “ I do not understand, but I had 
rather hear thee than dispute. Continue thy narration.” 

“ My father,” proceeded Imlac, “originally intended that I 
should have no other education than such as might qualify me 
for commerce ; and, discovering in me great strength of mem ¬ 
ory and quickness of apprehension, often declared his hope 
that I should be sometime the richest man in Abyssinia.” 

“ Why,” said the prince, “ did thy father desire the increase 
of his wealth, when it was already greater than he durst dis¬ 
cover or enjoy ? I am unwilling to doubt thy veracity, yet in¬ 
consistencies cannot both be true.” 

“ Inconsistencies,” answered Imlac, “ cannot both be right; 
but, imputed to man, they may both be true. Yet diversity is 
not inconsistency. My father might expect a time of greater 
security. However, some desire is necessary to keep life in 
motion ; and he whose real wants are supplied must admit 
those of fancy.” 

“This,” said the prince, “ I can in some measure conceive. 
I repent that I interrupted thee.” 

“ With this hope,” proceeded Imlac, “ he sent me to school; 
but when I had once found the delight of knowledge, and felt 
the pleasure of intelligence and the pride of invention, I began, 
silently to despise riches, and determined to disappoint the 
purpose of my father, whose grossness of conception raised my 
pity. I was twenty years old before his tenderness would ex? 


22 


RASSELAS. 


pose me to the fatigue of travel, in which time I had been in¬ 
structed, by successive masters, in all the literature of my 
native country. As every hour taught me something new, I 
lived in a continual course of gratifications ; but as I advanced 
towards manhood, I lost much of the reverence with which I 
had been used to look on my instructors: because, when the 
lesson was ended, I did not find them wiser or better than com¬ 
mon men. 

* “ At length my father resolved to initiate me in commerce : 

and, opening one of his subterranean treasuries, counted out 
ten thousand pieces of gold. ‘ This, young man/ said he, ‘ is 
the stock with which you must negotiate. I began with less 
than the fifth part, and you see how diligence and parsimony 
have increased it. This is your own to waste or to improve. 
If you squander it by negligence or caprice, you must wait for 
death before you be rich; if, in four years, you double your 
stock, we will thenceforward let subordination cease, and live 
together as friends and partners ; for he shall be always equal 
with me who is equally skilled in the art of growing rich.” 

“ We laid our money upon camels, concealed in bales of 
cheap goods, and travelled to the shore of the Red Sea. When 
I cast my eye upon the expanse of waters, my heart bounded 
like that of a prisoner escaped. I felt an unextinguishable 
curiosity kindle in my mind, and resolved to snatch this oppor¬ 
tunity of seeing the manners of other nations, and of learning 
sciences unknown in Abyssinia. 

“ I remember that my father had obliged me to the improve¬ 
ment of my stock, not by a promise which I ought not to 
violate, but by a penalty which I was at liberty to incur ; and 
therefore determined to gratify my predominant desire, and, by 
drinking at the fountains of knowledge, to quench the thirst of 
curiosity. 

“ As I was supposed to trade without connection with my 
father, it was easy for me to become acquainted with the mas¬ 
ter of a ship, and procure a passage to some other country. I 
had no motives of choice to regulate my voyage : it was suffi¬ 
cient for me that, wherever I wandered, I should see a coun¬ 
try which I had not seen before. I therefore entered a ship 
bound for Surat, having left a letter for my father declaring my 
intention.” 


KASSELAS: 


*3 


CHAPTER IX. 

N \ 

The History of Imlac continued. 

“When I first entered upon the world of waters, and lost 
sight of land, I looked round about me with pleasing terror, 
and, thinking my soul enlarged by the boundless prospect, im¬ 
agined that I could gaze round without satiety: but, in a short 
time, I grew weary of looking on barren uniformity, where I 
could only see again what I had already seen. I then de' 
scended into the ship, and doubted for awhile whether all my 
future pleasures would not end like this, in disgust and disap¬ 
pointment Yet, surely, said I, the ocean and the land are 
very different; the only variety of water is rest and motion, 
but the earth has mountains and valleys, deserts and cities: it 
is inhabited by men of different customs and contrary opinions ; 
and I may hope to find variety in life though I should miss it 
in nature. 

“ With this thought I quieted my mind, and amused myself 
during the voyage, sometimes by learning from the sailors the 
art of navigation, which I have never practiced, and sometimes 
by forming schemes for my conduct in different situations, in 
not one of which I have been ever placed. 

“ I was almost weary of my naval amusements when we 
landed safely at Surat. I secured my money, and purchasing 
some commodities for show, joined myself to a caravan that 
was passing into the inland country. My companions, for 
some reason or othex, conjecturing that I was rich, and, by my 
inquiries and admiration, finding that I was ignorant, considered 
me as a novice whom they had a right to cheat, and who was to 
learn at the usual expense the art of fraud. They exposed me 
to the theft of servants and the exaction of officers, and saw me 
plundered upon false pretences, without any advantage to them¬ 
selves, but that of rejoicing in the superiority of their own 
knowledge.” 

“ Stop a moment,” said the prince. “ Is there such de¬ 
pravity in man as that he should injure another without benefit 
to himself? I can easily conceive that all are pleased with 
superiority; but your ignorance was merely accidental, which, 
being neither your crime nor your folly, could afford them no 
reason to applaud themselves : and the knowledge which they 

12 


RASSELAS 


24 

had, and which you wanted, they might as effectually have 
shown by warning as betraying you.” 

“ Pride,” said Imlac, “ is seldom delicate, it will please it¬ 
self with very mean advantages ; and envy feels not its own 
happiness, but when it may be compared with the misery of 
others. They were my enemies, because they grieved to think 
me rich; and my oppressors, because they delighted to find me 
weak.” 

44 Proceed,” said the prince; 44 I doubt not of the facts 
which you relate, but imagine that you impute them to mistaken 
motives.” 

‘‘In this company,” said Imlac, “ I arrived at Agra, the 
capital of Indostan, the city in which the Great Mogul com¬ 
monly resides. I applied myself to the language of the coun¬ 
try, and in a few months was able to converse with the learned 
men ; some of whom I found morose and reserved, and others 
easy and communicative ; some were unwilling to teach another 
what they had with difficulty learned themselves , and some 
showed that the end of their studies was to gain the dignity of 
instructing. 

4< To the tutor of the young princes I recommended myself 
so much that I was presented to the emperor as a man 
of uncommon knowledge. The emperor asked me many ques¬ 
tions concerning my country and my travels; and though I 
I cannot now recollect anything that he uttered above the 
power of a common man, he dismissed me astonished at his 
wisdom, and enamored of his goodness. 

“ My credit was now so high that the merchants, with whom 
I travelled, applied to me for recommendations to the ladies 
of the court. I was surprised at their confidence of solicita¬ 
tion, and gently reproached them with their practices on the 
road. They heard me with cold indifference, and showed no 
tokens of shame or sorrow. 

“ They then urged their request with the offer of a bribe : 
but what I would not do for kindness, I would not do for 
money; and refused them, not because they had injured me, 
but because I would not enable them to injure others ; for I 
knew they would have made use of my credit to cheat those 
who should buy their wares. 

“ Having resided at Agra till there was no more to be 
learned, I travelled into Persia, where I saw many remains of 
ancient magnificence, and observed many new accommodations 
of life. The Persians are a nation eminently social, and their 
assemblies afforded me daily opportunities of remarking char- 


EASSELAS. 


2 5 

acters and manners, and of tracing human nature through all 
its variations. 

“ From Persia I passed into Arabia, where I saw a nation 
at once pastoral and warlike ; who live without any settled 
habitation ; whose only wealth is their flocks and herds ; and 
who have yet carried on, through all ages, an hereditary war 
with all mankind, though they neither covet nor envy their pos¬ 
sessions.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Imlac’s History continued. A Dissertation on Poetry. 

“Wherever I went, I found that poetry was considered as 
the highest learning, and regarded with a veneration somewhat 
approaching to that which man would pay to the Angelic Na¬ 
ture. And yet it fills me with wonder, that, in almost all coun¬ 
tries, the most ancient poets are considered as the best; whether 
it be that every other kind of knowledge is an acquisition grad¬ 
ually attained, and poetry is a gift conferred at once; or that 
the first poetry of every nation surprised them as a novelty, 
and retained the credit by consent, which it received by acci¬ 
dent at first : or whether, as the province of poetry is to de¬ 
scribe nature and passion, which are always the same, the first 
writers took possession of the most striking objects for descrip¬ 
tion,and the most probable occurrences for fiction, and left noth¬ 
ing to those that followed them, but transcription of the same 
events, and new combinations of the same images. Whatever 
be the reason, it is commonly observed that the early writers 
are in possession of nature, and their followers of art; that 
the first excel in strength and invention, and the latter in ele¬ 
gance and refinement, 

“ I was desirous to add my name to this illustrious frater¬ 
nity. I read all the poets of Persia and Arabia, and was able 
to repeat by memory the volumes that are suspended in the 
mosque of Mecca. But I soon found that no man was great by 
imitation. My desire of excellence impelled me to transfer my 
attention to nature and to life. Nature was to be my subj-ect, 
and men to be my auditors: I could never describe what I had 
not seen : I could not hope to move those with delight or ter¬ 
ror, whose interests and opinions I did not understand. 

“ Being now resolved to be a poet, I saw everything with a 
new purpose ; my sphere of attention was suddenly magnified: 
no kind of knowledge was to be overlooked. I ranged moun- 


RASSELAS. 


26 

tains and deserts for images and resemblances, and pictured 
upon my mind every tree of the forest and flower of the valley. 
I observed with equal care the crags of the rock and the pin¬ 
nacles of the palace. Sometimes I wandered along the mazes of 
the rivulet, and sometimes watched the changes of the summer 
clouds. To a poet nothing can be useless. Whatever is beau¬ 
tiful and whatever is dreadful must be familiar to his imagina¬ 
tion : he must be conversant with all that is awfully vast or 
elegantly little. The plants of the garden, the animals of the 
wood, the minerals of the earth, and me.teors of the sky, must 
all concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety; for 
every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of moral 
or religious truth; and he who knows most will have most 
power of diversifying his scenes, and of gratifying his reader 
with remote allusions and unexpected instruction. 

“ All the appearances of nature I was therefore careful to 
study; and every country which I have surveyed has contrib¬ 
uted something to my poetical powers.” 

“ In so wide a survey,” said the prince, “you must surely 
have left much unobserved. I have lived, till now, within the 
circuit of these mountains, and yet cannot walk abroad without 
the sight of something which I had never beheld before or never 
heeded.” 

“ The business of a poet,” said Imlac, “ is to examine, not 
the individual, but the species ; to remark general properties 
and large appearances; he does not number the streaks of the 
tulip, or describe the different shades in the verdure of the 
forest. He is to exhibit in his portraits of nature such prom¬ 
inent and striking features as recall the original to every mind ; 
and must neglect the minuter discriminations, which one may 
have remarked, and another have neglected, for those charac¬ 
teristics which are alike obvious to vigilance and carelessness. 

“ But the knowledge of nature is only half the task of a 
poet ; he must be acquainted likewise with all the modes of life. 
His character requires that he estimate the happiness and mis¬ 
ery of every condition ; observe the power of all the passions 
in all their combinations, and trace the changes of the human 
mind as they are modified by various institutions and accidental 
influences of climate or custom, from the sprightliness of in¬ 
fancy to the despondence of decrepitude. He must divest him¬ 
self of the prejudices of his age or country ; he must consider 
right and wrong in their abstracted and invariable state ; he 
must disregard present laws and opinions, and rise to general 
and transcendental truths, which will always be the same; h« 


RASSELAS. 


27 

must therefore content himself with the slow progress of his 
name; contemn the applause of his own time, and commit his 
claims to the justice of posterity. He must write as the inter¬ 
preter of nature, and the legislator of mankind, and consider 
himself as presiding over the thoughts and manners of future 
generations ; as a being superior to time and place. 

“ His labor is not yet at an end ; he must know many 
languages and many sciences: and, that his style may be 
worthy of his thoughts, must, by incessant practice, familiarize 
to himself every delicacy of speech and grace of harmony.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

Imlac’s Narrative continued. A Hint on Pilgrimage. 

Imlac now felt the enthusiastic fit, and was proceeding to 
aggrandize his own profession, when the prince cried out, 
“ Enough! thou hast convinced me, that no human being can 
ever be a poet. Proceed with thy narration.” 

“ To be a poet,” said Imlac, “ is indeed very difficult.” 
“ So difficult,” returned the prince, “ that I will at present 
hear no more of his labors. Tell me whither you went when 
you had seen Persia.” 

“ From Persia,” said the poet, “ I travelled through Syria, 
and for three years resided in Palestine, where I conversed with 
great numbers of the northern and western nations of Europe; 
the nations which are now in possession of all power and all 
knowledge : whose armies are irresistible, and whose fleet com¬ 
mand the remotest parts of the globe. When I compared these 
men with the natives of our own kingdom, and those that sur¬ 
round us, they appeared almost another order of beings. In their 
countries it is difficult to wish for anything that may not be 
obtained : a thousand arts, of which we never heard, are con¬ 
tinually laboring for their convenience and pleasure ; and 
whatever their own climate has denied them is supplied by their 
commerce.” 

“ By what means,” said the prince, “are the Europeans 
thus powerful; or why, since they can so easily visit Asia or 
Africa for trade or conquest, cannot the Asiatics and Africans 
invade their coasts, plant colonies in their ports, and give laws 
to their natural princes ? The same wind that carries them 
back would bring us thither.” 

“ They are more powerful, sir chan we,” amswered Imlac, 


EASSELAS. 


2h> 

“because they are wiser; knowledge will always predominate 
over ignorance, as man governs the other animals. But why 
their knowledge is more than ours, I know not what reason can 
be given, but the unsearchable will of the Supreme Being.” 

“ When,” said the prince with a sigh, “ shall I be able to 
visit Palestine, and mingle with this mighty confluence of 
nations? Till that happy moment shall arrive, let me fill up 
the time with such representations as thou canst give me. I 
am not ignorant of the motive that assembles such numbers in 
that place, and cannot but consider it as the centre of wisdom 
and piety, to which the best and wisest of every land must be 
continually resorting.” 

“There are some nations,” said Imlac, “that sen~ few 
visitants to Palestine ; for many numerous and learned sects in 
Europe concur to censure pilgrimage as superstitious or deride 
it as ridiculous.” 

“You know,” said the prince, “how little my life has made 
me acquainted with diversity of opinions : it will be too long to 
hear the arguments on both sides; you, that have considered 
them, tell me the result.” 

“ Pilgrimage,” said Imlac, “ like many other acts of piety, 
may be reasonable or superstitious, according to the principles 
upon which it is performed. Long journeys in search of truth 
are not commanded. Truth, such as is necessary to the regula¬ 
tion of life, is always found where it is honestly sought. Change 
of place is no natural cause of the increase of piety, for it inevit¬ 
ably produces dissipation of mind. Yet, since men go every 
day to view the fields where great actions have been performed, 
and return with stronger impressions of the event, curiosity of 
the same kind may naturally dispose us to view that country 
whence our religion had its beginning: and I believe no man 
surveys those awful scenes without some confirmation of holy 
resolutions. That the Supreme Being may be more easily propiti¬ 
ated in one place than in another is the dream of idle super¬ 
stition ; but that some places may operate upon our minds in 
an uncommon manner is an opinion which hourly experience 
will justify. He who supposes that his vices may be more 
successfully combated in Palestine will, perhaps, find himself 
mistaken ; yet he may go thither without folly : he who thinks 
they will be more freely pardoned dishonors at once his reason 
and religion.” 

“ These,” said the prince, “ are European distinctions. I 
will consider them another time. What have you found to be 
the effect of knowledge ? Are those nations happier than we ? ” 


JRASSELAS. 


29 


“There is so much infelicity,” said the poet, “in the world, 
that scarce any man has leisure from his own distresses to esti¬ 
mate the comparative happiness of others. Knowledge, is 
certainly one of the means of pleasure as is confessed by the 
natural desire which every mind feels of increasing its ideas. 
Ignorance is mere privation, by which nothing can be pro¬ 
duced : it is a vacuity in which the soul sits motionless and 
torpid for want of attraction; and, without knowing why, we 
always rejoice when we learn, and grieve when we forget. I 
am therefore inclined to conclude, that if nothing counteracts 
the natural consequence of learning, we grow more happy as 
our minds take a wider range. 

“In enumerating the particular comforts of life, we shall 
find many advantages on the side of the Europeans. They 
cure wounds and diseases with which we languish and perish. 
We suffer inclemencies of weather which they can obviate. 
They have engines for the despatch of many laborious works 
which we must perform by manual industry. There is such 
communication between distant places that one friend can 
hardly be said to be absent from another. Their policy removes 
all public inconveniences; they have roads cut through their 
mountains, and bridges laid upon their rivers. And, if we 
descend to the privacies of life, their habitations are more com¬ 
modious, and their possessions are more secure.” 

“ They are surely happy,” said the prince, “ who have all 
these conveniences, of which I envy none so much as the 
facility with which separated friends interchange their thoughts.” 

“The Europeans,” answered Imlac, are less unhappy than 
we, but they are not happy. Human life is everywhere a state 
in which much is to be endured, and little to be enjoyed.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Story of Imlac continued. 

“ I am not yet willing,” said the prince/to suppose that hap 
piness is so parsimoniously distributed to mortals ; nor can be 
lieve but that, if I had the choice of life, I should be able tc 
fill every day with pleasure. I would injure no man, and shoulcr 
provoke no resentment: I would relieve every distress, ana 
should enjoy the benedictions of gratitude. I would choose 
my friends among the wise and my wife among the virtuous ; 
and therefore should be in no danger from treachery 01 unkind- 


RASSELAS. 


3 ® 

ness. My children should, by my care, be learned had pious, 
and would repay to my age what their childhood and received. 
What would dare to molest him who might call on every side 
to thousands enriched by his bounty, or assisted by his power ? 
And why should not life glide quietly away in the soft recipro¬ 
cation of protection and reverence ? All this may be done 
without the help of European refinements, which appear by 
their effects to be rather specious than useful. Let us leave 
them, and pursue our journey.” 

“From Palestine,” said Imlac, “ I passed through many re¬ 
gions of Asia, in the more civilized kingdoms as a trader, and 
among the barbarians of the mountains as a pilgrim. At last 
I began to long for my native country, that I might repose, 
after my travels and fatigues, in the places where I had spent 
my earliest years, and gladden my old companions with the re¬ 
cital of my adventures. Often did I figure to myself those 
with whom I had sported away the gay hours of dawning life, 
sitting round me in its evening, wondering at my tales, and 
listening to my counsels. 

“ When this thought had taken possession of my mind, I 
considered every moment as wasted which did not bring me 
nearer to Abyssinia. I hastened into Egypt, and notwithstand¬ 
ing my impatience, was detained ten months in the contempla¬ 
tion of its ancient magnificence, and in inquiries after the 
remains of its ancient learning. I found in Cairo a mixture of 
all nations; some brought thither by the love of knowledge, 
some by the hope of gain, and many by the desire of living 
after their own manner without observation, and of lying hid in 
the obscurity of multitudes ; for in a city, populous as Cairo, it 
is possible to obtain at the same time the gratifications of 
society and the secrecy of solitude. 

“From Cairo I travelled to Suez, and embarked on the 
Red Sea, passing along the coast till I arrived at the port from 
which I had departed twenty years before. Here I joined 
myself to a caravan, and re-entered my native country. 

“ I now expected the caresses of my kinsmen, and the con¬ 
gratulations of my friends, and was not without hope that my 
father, whatever value he had set upon riches, would own with 
gladness and pride a son who was able to add to the felicity and 
honor of the nation. But I was soon convinced that my 
thoughts were vain. My father had been dead fourteen years, 
having divided his wealth among my brothers, who were re¬ 
moved to some other provinces. Of my companions the greater 
part was in the grave; of the rest, some could with difficulty 


XASSSLAS. 


3 * 

remember me, and some considered me as one corrupted by 
foreign manners. 

“ A man used to vicissitudes is not easily dejected. I for¬ 
got, after a time, my disappointment, and endeavored to recom¬ 
mend myself to the nobles of the kingdom ; they admitted me 
to their tables, heard my story, and dismissed me. I opened a 
school, and was prohibited to teach. I then resolved to sit 
down in the quiet of domestic like, and addressed a lady that 
was fond of my conversation, but rejected my suit because my 
father was a merchant. 

“ Wearied at last with solicitations and repulses, I resolved 
to hide myself forever from the world, and depend no longer 
on the opinion or caprice of others. I waited for the time 
when the gate of the happy valley should open, that I might bid 
farewell to hope and fear: the day came ; my performance was 
distinguished with favor, and I resigned myself with joy to per¬ 
petual confinement/’ 

“ Hast thou here found happiness at last ? ” “ Tell me 
without reserve ; art thou content with thy condition ? or, dost 
thou wish to be again wandering and inquiring? All the in¬ 
habitants of this valley celebrate their lot, and at the annual 
visit of the emperor invite others to partake of their felicity.” 

“ Great prince,” said Imlac, “ I shall speak the truth ; I know 
not one of all your attendants who does not lament the hour 
when he entered this retreat. I am less unhappy than the 
rest, because I have a mind replete with images, which I can 
vary and combine at pleasure. I can amuse my solitude by 
the renovation of the knowledge which begins to fade from my 
memory, and by recollections of the incidents of my past life. 
Yet all this ends in the sorrowful consideration, that my ac¬ 
quirements are now useless, and that none of my pleasures can 
be again enjoyed. The rest, whose minds have no impression 
but that of the present moment, are either corroded by 
malignant passions or sit stupid in the gloom of perpetual 
vacancy.” 

“ What passions can infest those,” said the prince, “ who 
have no rivals ? We are in a place where impotence precludes 
malice, and where all envy is repressed by community of enjoy* 
ments.” 

“ There may be community,” said Imlac, “ of material pos¬ 
sessions, but there can never be community of love or ol 
esteem. It must happen that one will please more than another: 
he that knows himself despised will always be envious % and 
still more envious and malevolent, if he is condemned to live 


JRASSELAS. 


3 * 

in the presence of those who despise him. The invitations by 
which they allure others to a state which they feel to be 
wretched, proceed from the natural malignity of hopeless mis¬ 
ery. .They are weary of themselves and of each other, and 
expect to find relief in new companions. They envy the liberty 
which their folly has forfeited, and would gladly see all man¬ 
kind imprisoned like themselves. 

“ From this crime, however, I am wholly free. No man 
can say that he is wretched by my persuasion. I look with 
pity on the crowds who are annually soliciting admission into 
captivity, and wish that it were lawful for me to warn them of 
their danger.” 

“ My dear Imlac,” said the prince, “ I will open to thee my 
whole heart. I have long meditated an escape from the happy 
valley. I have examined the mountains on every side, and find 
myself insuperably barred: teach me the way to break my 
prison : thou shalt be the companion of my flight, the guide of 
my rambles, the partner of my fortune, and my sole director in 
the choice of life” 

“Sir,” answered the poet, “your escape will be difficult; 
and, perhaps, you may soon repent your curiosity. The world, 
which you figure to yourself smooth and quiet as the lake in 
the valley, you will find a sea foaming with tempests and boil¬ 
ing with whirlpools: you will be sometimes overwhelmed with 
the waves of violence, and sometimes dashed against the rocks 
of treachery. Amidst wrongs and frauds, competitions and 
anxieties, you will wish a thousand times for these seats of 
quiet, and willingly quit hope to be free from fear.” 

“Do not seek to deter me from my purpose,” said the 
prince; “I am impatient to see what thou hast seen; and 
since thou art thyself weary of the valley, it is evident that thy 
former state was better than this. Whatever be the conse¬ 
quence of my experiment, I am resolved to judge with mine 
own eyes of the various conditions of men, and then to make 
deliberately my choice of life” 

“I am afraid,” said Imlac, “you are hindered by stronger 
restraints than my persuasions ; yet, if your determination is 
fixed, I do not counsel you to despair. Few things are impos¬ 
sible to diligence and skill.” 


EASSELAS. 


33 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Rasselas Discovers the Means of Escape. 

The prince now dismissed his favorite to rest, but the narra¬ 
tive of wonders and novelties filled his mind with perturbation. 
He revolved all that he had heard, and prepared innumerable 
questions for the morning. 

Much of his uneasiness was now removed. He had a friend 
to whom he could impart his thoughts, and whose experience 
could assist him in his designs. His heart was no longer con¬ 
demned to swell in silent vexation. He thought that even the 
happy valley might be endured with such a companion ; and 
that if they could range the world together, he should have 
nothing further to desire. 

In a few days the water was discharged, and the ground 
dried. The prince and Imlac then walked out together to 
converse without the notice of the rest. The prince, whose 
thoughts were always on the wing, as he passed by the gate, 
said, with a countenance of sorrow, “Why art thou so strong, 
and why is man so weak ? ” 

“ Man is not weak,” answered his companion ; “knowledge 
is more than equivalent to force. The master of mechanics 
laughs at strength. I can burst the gate, but cannot do it 
secretly. Some other expedient must be tried.” 

As they were walking on the side of the mountain, they ob¬ 
served that the conies, which the rain had driven from their 
burrows, had taken shelter among the bushes, and formed 
holes behind them, tending upwards in an oblique line. “ It 
has been the opinion of antiquity,” said Imlac, “ that human 
reason borrowed many arts from the instinct of animals ; let us, 
therefore, not think ourselves degraded by learning from the 
cony. We may escape by piercing the mountain in the same 
direction. We will begin where the summit hangs over the 
middle part, and labor upward till we shall issue up beyond the 
prominence.” 

The eyes of the prince, when he heard this proposal, 
sparkled with joy. The execution was easy, and the success 
certain. 

No time was now lost. They hastened, early in the morn* 
ing, to choose a place properMor their mind. They clambered 


&ASSZLAS. 


34 

with great fatigue among crags and brambles, and returned 
without having discovered any part that favored their design. 
The second and third day were spent in the same manner, and 
with the same frustration. But, on the fourth, they found a 
small cavern, concealed by a thicket, where they resolved to 
make their experiment. 

Imlac procured instruments proper to hew stone and re¬ 
move earth, and they fell to their work the next day with more 
eagerness than vigor. They were presently exhausted by their 
efforts, and sat down to pant upon the grass. The prince, for 
a moment, appeared to be discouraged. “ Sir,” said his com¬ 
panion, “ practice will enable us to continue our labor for a 
longer time; mark, however, how far we have advanced, and 
you will find that our toil will some time have an end. Great 
works are performed, not by strength, but by perseverance; 
yonder palace was raised by single stones, yet you see its 
height and spaciousness. He that shall walk with vigor three 
hours a day, will pass in seven years a space equal to the cir¬ 
cumference of the globe.” 

They returned to their work day after day; and, in a short 
time, found a fissure in the rock, which enabled them to pass 
far with very little obstruction. This Rasselas considered as a 
good omen. “ Do not disturb your mind,” said Imlac, “ with 
other hopes and fears than reason may suggest: if you are 
pleased with prognostics of good, you will be terrified likewise 
with tokens of evil, and your whole life will be a prey to super¬ 
stition. Whatever facilitates our work is more than an omen, 
it is a cause of success. This is one of those pleasing surprises 
which often happen to active resolution. Many things difficult 
to design prove easy to performance.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Rasselas and Imlac Receive an Unexpected Visit. 

They had now wrought their way to the middle, and so¬ 
laced their thoughts with the approach of liberty, when the 
prince coming down to refresh himself with air, found his sister 
Nekayah standing before the mouth of the cavity. He started 
and stood confused, afraid to tell his design, and yet hopeless 
to conceal it. A few moments determined him to repose on 
her fidelity, and secure her secrecy by a declaration without 
reserve. 


RASSELAS. 


35 

u Do not imagine,” said the princess, “ that I came hither 
as a spy: I had long observed from my window, that you 
and Imlac directed your walk every day towards the same 
point, but I did not suppose you had any better reason for the 
preference than a cooler shade, or more fragrant bank; nor 
followed you with any other design than to partake of your 
conversation. Since, then, not suspicion but fondness has de¬ 
tected you, let me not lose the advantage of my discovery. I 
am equally weary of confinement with yourself, and not less 
desirous of knowing what is done or suffered in the world. 
Permit me to fly with you from this tasteless tranquillity, which 
will yet grow more loathsome when you have left me. You 
may deny me to accompany you, but cannot hinder me from 
following.” 

The prince, who loved Nekayah above his other sisters, 
had no inclination to refuse her request, and grieved that he 
had lost an opportunity of showing his confidence by a volun¬ 
tary communication. It was therefore agreed that she should 
leave the valley with them : and that, in the mean time, she 
should watch lest any other straggler should, by chance or curi¬ 
osity, follow them to the mountain. 

At length their labor was at an end : they saw light beyond 
the prominence, and, issuing to the top of the mountain, beheld 
the Nile, yet a narrow current, wandering beneath them. 

The prince looked round with rapture, anticipated all the 
pleasure of travel, and in thought was already transported be¬ 
yond his father’s dominions. Imlac, though very joyful at his 
escape, had less expectation of pleasure in the world, which he 
had before tried, and of which he had been weary. 

Rasselas was so much delighted with a wider horizon that 
he could not soon be persuaded to return into the valley. He 
informed his sister that the way was open, and that nothing now 
remained but to prepare for their departure. 


CHAPTER XV. 


The Prince and Princess leave the Valley, and see many Wonders. 


The prince and princess had jewels sufficient to make them 
rich whenever they came into a place of commerce, which, by 
Imlac’s direction, they might hide in their clothes ; and, on 
the night of the next full moon, all left the valley. The prin- 


KASSELAS. 


& 

cess was followed only by a single favorite, who did not know 
whither she was going. 

They clambered through the cavity, and began to go down 
on the other side. The princess and her maid turned their eyes 
towards every part, and, seeing nothing to bound their prospect, 
considered themselves as in danger of being lost in a dreary 
vacuity. They stopped and trembled. “ I am almost afraid,” 
said the princess, “ to begin a journey of which I cannot per¬ 
ceive an end, and to venture into this immense plain, where I 
may be approached on every side by men whom I never saw.” 
The prince felt nearly the same emotions, though he thought it 
more manly to conceal them. 

Imlac smiled at their terrors, and encouraged them to pro¬ 
ceed : but the princess continued irresolute till she had been 
imperceptibly drawn forward too far to return. 

In the morning they found some shepherds in the field, who 
set milk and fruits before them. The princess wondered that 
she did not see a palace ready for her reception, and a table 
spread with delicacies; but, being faint and hungry, she drank 
the milk and ate the fruits, and thought them of a higher fla¬ 
vor than the products of the valley. 

They travelled forward by easy journeys, being all unaccus¬ 
tomed to toil or difficulty, and knowing that, though they might 
be missed, they could not be pursued. In a few days they 
came into a more populous region, where Imlac was diverted 
with the admiration which his companions expressed at the di¬ 
versity of manners, stations, and employments. 

Their dress was such as might not bring upon them the sus¬ 
picion of having anything to conceal ; yet the prince, wherever 
he came, expected to be obeyed, and the princess was flighted 
because those that came into her presence did not prostrate 
themselves before her. Imlac was forced to observe them with 
great vigilance, lest they should betray their rank by their un¬ 
usual behavior, and detained them several weeks in the first 
village, to accustom them to the sight of common mortals. 

By degrees the royal wanderers were taught to understand 
that they had for a time laid aside their dignity, and were to 
expect only such regard as liberality and courtesy could pro¬ 
cure. And Imlac, having, by many admonitions, prepared* 
them to endure the tumults of a port, and the ruggedness of the 
commercial race, brought them down to the sea-coast. 

The prince and his sister, to whom everything was new, 
were gratified equally at all places, and therefore remained for 
some months at the port without any inclination to pass further. 


EASSELAS. 


37 

Imlac was content with their stay, because he did not think it 
safe to expose them, unpracticed in the world, to the hazards 
of a foreign country. 

At last he began to fear lest they should be discovered, and 
proposed, to fix a day for their departure. They had no preten¬ 
sions to. judge for themselves, and referred the whole scheme 
to his direction. He therefore took passage in a ship to Suez; 
and, when the time came, with great difficulty prevailed on the 
princess to enter the vessel. They had a quick and prosperous 
voyage ; and from Suez travelled by land to Cairo. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

They enter Cairo, and find every man happy; 


As they approached the city, which filled the strangers with 
astonishment, “ This,” said Imlac to the prince, “is the place 
where travellers and merchants assemble from all „the corners 
of the earth. You will here find men of every character, and 
every occupation. Commerce is here honorable : I will act as 
a merchant who has no other end of travel than curiosity ; it 
will soon be observed that we are rich ; our reputation will 
procure us access to all whom we shall desire to know; you 
will see all the conditions of humanity, and enable yourself at 
leisure to make your choice of life.” 

They now entered the town, stunned by the noise and 
offended by the crowds. Instruction had not yet so prevailed 
over habit, but that they wondered to see themselves pass un¬ 
distinguished along the street, and met by the lowest of the 
people without reverence or notice. The princess could not at 
first bear the thought of being levelled with the vulgar, and foi 
some days continued in her chamber, where she was served by 
her favorite Pekuah as in the palace of the valley. 

Imlac, who understood traffic, sold part of the jewels the 
next day, and hired a house, which he adorned with such mag¬ 
nificence, that he was immediately considered as a merchant of 
great wealth. His politeness attracted many acquaintance, and 
his generosity made him courted by many dependants. His 
table was crowded by men of every nation, who all admired his 
knowledge, and solicited his favor. His companions, not being 
able to mix in the conversation, could make no discovery of 
their ignorance or surprise, and were gradually initiated in the 
world as they gained knowledge of the language. 


*8 


EASSEZAS. 


The prince had, by frequent lectures, been taught the use 
and nature of money; but the ladies could not for a long 
time comprehend what the merchants did with small pieces of 
gold and silver, or why things of so little use should be re¬ 
ceived as equivalent to the necessaries of life. 

They studied the language two years, while Imlac was pre¬ 
paring to set before them the various ranks and conditions of 
mankind. He grew acquainted with all who had anything 
uncommon in their fortune or conduct. He frequented the 
voluptuous and the frugal, the idle and the busy, the mer¬ 
chants and the men of learning. 

The prince being now able to converse with fluency, and 
having learned the caution necessary to be observed in his in¬ 
tercourse with strangers, began to accompany Imlac to places 
of resort, and to enter into all assemblies, that he might make 
his choice of life. 

For some time he thought choice needless, because all ap¬ 
peared to him equally happy. Wherever he went he met 
gayety and kindness, and heard the song of joy or the laughter 
of carelessness. He began to believe that the world over¬ 
flowed with universal plenty, and that nothing was withheld 
either from want or merit; that every hand showered liberality, 
and every heart melted with benevolence; “ and who then,” 
says he, “ will be suffered to be wretched ? ” 

Imlac permitted the pleasing delusion, and was unwilling 
to crush the hope of inexperience, till one day, having sat 
awhile silent, “ I know not,” said the prince, “ what can be 
the reason that I am more unhappy than any of our friends. 
I see them perpetually and unalterably cheerful, but feel my 
own mind restless and uneksy. I am unsatisfied with those 
pleasures which I .seem most to court. I live in the crowds of 
jollity, not so much to enjoy company as to shun myself, and 
am only loud and merry to conceal my sadness.” 

“ Every man,” said Imlac, “ may by examining his own 
mind guess what passes in the minds of others : when you 
feel that your own gayety is counterfeit, it may justly lead you 
to suspect that of your companions not to be sincere. Envy 
is commonly reciprocal. We are long before we are convinced 
that happiness is never to be found, and each believes it pos¬ 
sessed by others to keep alive the hope of obtaining it for 
himself. In the assembly where you passed the last night, 
there appeared such sprightliness of air and volatility of fancy 
as might have suited beings of a higher order, formed to in¬ 
habit serener regions inaccessible to care or sorrow; yet be- 


RASSELAS. 


39 

lieve me, prince, there was not one who did not dread the 
moment when solitude should deliver him to the tyranny of 
reflection.” 

“ This,” said the prince, “ may be true of others, since it is 
true of me ; yet whatever be the general infelicity of man, one 
condition is more happy than another, and wisdom surely 
directs us to take the least evil in the choice of life” 

“ The causes of good and evil,” answered Imlac, “ are so 
various and uncertain, so often entangled with each other, so 
diversified by various relations, and so much subject to acci¬ 
dents which cannot be foreseen, that he who would fix his con¬ 
dition upon incontestible reasons of preference must live and 
die inquiring and deliberating.” 

“ But, surely,” said Rasselas, “ the wise men, to whom we 
listen with reverence and wonder, chose that mode of life for 
themselves which they thought most likely to make them 
happy.” 

“ Very few,” said the poet, “ live by choice. Every man is 
placed in his present condition by causes which acted without 
his foresight, and with which he did not always willingly co¬ 
operate ; and therefore you will rarely meet one who does not 
think the lot of his neighbor better than his own.” 

“ I am pleased to think,” said the prince, “ that my birth 
has given me at least one advantage over others, by enabling 
me to determine for myself. I have here the world before me; 
I will review it at leisure ; surely happiness is somewhere to be 
found.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The Prince associates with Young Men of Spirit and Gayety. 

Rasselas rose next day, and resolved to begin his experi¬ 
ments upon life. “Youth,” cried he, “is the time of glad¬ 
ness : I will join myself to the young men, whose only busi¬ 
ness is to gratify their desires, and whose time is all spent in 
a succession of enjoyments.” 

To such societies he was readily admitted ; but a few days 
brought him back weary and disgusted. Their mirth was 
without images ; their laughter without motive ; their pleasures 
were gross and sensual, in which the mind had no part; their 
conduct was at once wild and mean ; they laughed at order 
and law: but the frown of power dejected, and the eye of wis¬ 
dom abashed them. 


4 © 


RASSELAS. 


The prince soon concluded that he should never be happy 
in a course of life of which he was ashamed. He thought it 
unsuitable to a reasonable being to act without a plan, and to 
be sad or cheerful only by chance. “Happiness,” said he, 
“ must be something solid and permanent, without fear and 
without uncertainty.” 

But his young companions had gained so much of his re¬ 
gard by their frankness and courtesy that he could not leave 
them without warning and remonstrance. “ My friends,” said 
he, “ I have seriously considered our manners and our pros¬ 
pects, and find that we have mistaken our own interest. The 
first years of man must make provision for the last. He that 
never thinks never can be wise. Perpetual levity must end in 
ignorance ; and intemperance, though it may fire the spirits for 
an hour, will make life short or miserable. Let us consider 
that youth is of no long duration, and that in maturer age, 
when the enchantments of fancy shall cease, and phantoms of 
delight dance no more about us, we shall have no comforts but 
the esteem of wise men, and the means of doing good. Let 
us, therefore, stop while to stop is in our power : let us live as 
men who are sometimes to grow old, and to whom it will be 
the most dreadful of all evils not to count their past years by 
follies, and to be reminded of their former luxuriance of health 
only by the maladies which riot has produced.” 

They stared awhile in silence one upon another, and at 
last drove him away by a general chorus of continued laughter. 

The consciousness that his sentiments were just, and his 
intentions kind, was scarcely sufficient to support him against 
the horror of derision. But he recovered his tranquillity, and 
pursued his search. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The Prince finds a Wise and Happy Man. 


As he was one day walking in the street, he saw a spacious 
building, which all were, by the open doors, invited to enter; 
he followed the stream of people and found it a hall or school 
of declamation, in which professors read lectures to their audi¬ 
tory. He fixed his eye upon a sage raised above the rest, who 
discoursed with great energy on the government of the pas¬ 
sions. His look was venerable, his action graceful, his pro¬ 
nunciation clear, and his diction elegant. He showed, with 


EASSELAS. 


4i 


great strength of sentiment and variety of illustration, that 
human nature is degraded and debased when the lower facul¬ 
ties predominate over the higher; that when fancy, the parent 
of passion, usurps the dominion of the mind, nothing ensues 
but the natural effect of unlawful government, perturbation, 
and confusion ; that she betrays the fortresses of the intellect 
to rebels, and excites her children to sedition against reason, 
their lawful sovereign. He compared reason to the sun, of 
which the light is constant, uniform, and lasting ; and fancy to 
a meteor, of bright but transitory lustre, irregular in its motion, 
and delusive in its direction. 

He then communicated the various precepts given from 
time to time for the conquest of passion, and displayed the 
happiness of those who had obtained the important victory, 
after which man is no longer the slave of fear, nor the fool of 
hope ; is no more emaciated by envy, inflamed by anger, 
emasculated by tenderness, or depressed by grief; but walks 
on calmly through the tumults or privacies of life, as the sun 
pursues alike his course through the calm or the stormy sky. 

He enumerated many examples of heroes immovable by 
pain or pleasure, who looked with indifference on those modes 
or accidents to which the vulgar give the names of good and 
evil. He exhorted his hearers to lay aside their prejudices, 
and arm themselves against the shafts, of malice or misfortune^ 
by invulnerable patience ; concluding, that this state only was 
happiness, and that this happiness was in everyone’s power. 

Rasselas listened to him with the veneration due to the in¬ 
structions of a superior being; and, waiting for him at the 
door, humbly implored the liberty of visiting so great a master 
of true wisdom. The lecturer hesitated a moment, when Ras¬ 
selas put a purse of gold into his hand, which he received with 
a mixture of joy and wonder. 

“ I have found,” said the prince, at his return to Imlac, “ a 
man who can teach all that is necessary to be known, who, 
from the unshaken throne of rational fortitude, looks down on 
the scenes of life changing beneath him. He speaks, and at¬ 
tention watches his lips. He reasons, and conviction closes 
his periods. This man shall be my future guide : I will learn 
his doctrines and imitate his life.” 

“ Be not too hasty,” said Imlac, “ to trust, or to admire, 
the teachers of morality; they discourse like angels, but they 
live like men.” 

Rasselas, who could not conceive how any man could reason 
so forcibly without feeling the cogency of his own arguments, 


42 


RASSELAS. 


paid his visit in a few days, and was denied admission. He 
had now learned the power of money, and made his way by a 
piece of gold to the inner apartment, where he found the phi¬ 
losopher in a room half darkened, with his eyes misty, and his 
face pale. “ Sir,” said he, “ you are come at a time when all 
human friendship is useless; what I suffer cannot be remedied, 
what I have lost cannot be supplied. My daughter, my only 
daughter, from whose tenderness I expected all the comforts 
of my age, died last night of a fever. My views, my purposes, 
my hopes are at an end: I am now a lonely being disunited 
from society.” 

“ Sir,” said the prince, “ mortality is an event by which a 
wise man can never be surprised : we know that death is 
always near, and it should therefore always be expected.” 
“Young man,” answered the philosopher, “you speak like one 
that has never felt the pangs of separation.” “ Have you then 
forgot the precepts,” said Rasselas, “ which you so powerfully 
enforced ? Has wisdom no strength to arm the heart against 
calamity? Consider that external things are naturally vari¬ 
able, but truth and reason are always the same.” “What com¬ 
fort,” said the mourner, “ can truth and reason afford me ? of 
what effect are they now, but to tell me, that my daughter will 
not be restored ? ” 

The prince, whose humanity would not suffer him to insult 
misery with reproof, went away convinced of the emptiness of 
rhetorical sound, and the inefficacy of polished periods and 
studied sentences. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A Glimpse of Pastoral Life. 

He was still eager upon the same inquiry; and having 
heard of a hermit that lived near the lowest cataract of the 
Nile, and filled the whole country with the fame of his sanctity, 
resolved to visit his retreat, and inquire whether that felicity, 
which public life could not afford, was to be found in solitude ; 
and whether a man whose age and virtue made him venerable, 
could teach any peculiar art of shunning evils or enduring 
them ? 

Imlac and the princess agreed to accompany him ; and, 
after the necessary preparations, they began their journey. 
Their way lay through the fields, where shepherds tended their 


KASSELAS. 


43 

flocks, and the lambs were playing upon the pasture. “ This,” 
said the poet, “ is the life which has been often celebrated for 
its innocence and quiet; let us pass the heat of the day among 
the shepherds’ tents, and know whether all our searches are 
not to terminate in pastoral simplicity.’' 

The proposal pleased them, and they induced the shep¬ 
herds, by small presents, and familiar questions, to tell their 
opinion of their own state ; they were so rude and ignorant, so 
little able to compare the good with the evil of the occupation, 
and so indistinct in their narratives and descriptions, that very 
little could be learned from them. But it was evident that 
their hearts were cankered with discontent; that they con¬ 
sidered themselves as condemned to labor for the luxury of 
the rich, and looked up with stupid malevolence toward those 
that were placed above them. 

The princess pronounced with vehemence, that she would 
never suffer these envious savages to be her companions, and 
that she should not soon be desirous of seeing any more speci¬ 
mens of rustic happiness; but could not believe that all the 
accounts of primeval pleasures were fabulous; and was yet in 
doubt, whether life had anything that could be justly preferred 
to the placid gratifications of fields and woods. She hoped 
that the time would come, when, with a few virtuous and ele¬ 
gant companions, she should gather flowers planted by her own 
hand, fondle the lambs of her own ewe, and listen, without care, 
among brooks and breezes, to one of her maidens reading in 
the shade. 


CHAPTER XX. 

The Danger of Prosperity. 

On the next day they continued their journey, till the heat 
compelled them to look round for shelter. At a small distance 
they saw a thick wood, which they no sooner entered than they 
perceived that they were approaching the habitations of men. 
The shrubs were diligently cut away to open walks where the 
shades were darkest: the boughs of opposite trees were artificially 
interwoven ; seats of flowery turf were raised in vacant spaces : 
and a rivulet that wantoned along the side of a winding path, 
had its banks sometimes opened into small basins, and its 
stream sometimes obstructed by little mounds of stone heaped 
together to increase its murmurs. 


44 


RASSELAS. 


They passed slowly through the wood, delighted with such 
unexpected accommodations, and entertained each other with 
conjecturing what, or who he could be, that, in those rude and 
unfrequented regions, had leisure and art for such harmless 
luxury. 

As they advanced, they heard the sound of music, and saw 
youths and virgins dancing in the grove ; and, going still fur¬ 
ther, beheld a stately palace built upon a hill surrounded with 
woods. The laws of eastern hospitality allowed them to enter, 
and the master welcomed them like a man liberal and wealthy. 

He was skilful enough in appearances soon to discern that 
they were no common guests, and spread his table with magni¬ 
ficence. The eloquence of Imlac caught his attention, and the 
lofty courtesy of the princess excited his respect. When they 
offered to depart he entreated their stay, and was the next day 
still more unwilling to dismiss them than before. They were 
easily persuaded to stop, and civility grew up in time to freedom 
and confidence. 

The prince now saw all the domestics cheerful, and all the 
face of nature smiling round the place, and could not forbear 
to hope he should find here what he was seeking; but when he 
was congratulating the master upon his possessions, he an¬ 
swered with a sigh, “ My condition has indeed the appearance 
of happiness, but appearances are delusive. My prosperity 
puts my life in danger ; the Bassa of Egypt is my enemy, in¬ 
censed only by my wealth and popularity. I have hitherto 
been protected against him by the princes of the country ; but 
as the favor of the great is uncertain, I know not how soon my 
defenders may be persuaded to share the plunder with the 
Bassa. I have sent my treasures into a distant country, and, 
upon the first alarm, am prepared to follow them. Then will 
my enemies riot in my mansion, and enjoy the gardens which I 
have planted.” 

They all joined in lamenting his danger, and deprecating 
his exile; and the princess was so much disturbed with the 
tumult of grief and indignation that she retired to her apart¬ 
ment. 

They continued with their kind inviter a few days longer, 
and then went forward to find the hermit. 


EASSELAS. 


45 


CHAPTER XXL 

The Happiness of Solitude. The Hermit’s History. 

They came on the third day, by the direction of the peas¬ 
ants, to the hermit’s cell: it was a cavern in the side of a moun¬ 
tain, overshadowed with palm trees ; at such a distance from 
the cataract that nothing more was heard than a gentle uniform 
murmur, such as composed the mind to pensive meditation, 
especially when it was assisted by the wind whistling among 
the branches. The first rude essay of nature had been so much 
improved by human labor that the cave contained several 
apartments appropriated to different uses, and often afforded 
lodging to travellers, whom darkness or tempests happened to 
overtake. 

The hermit sat on a bench at the door to enjoy the coolness 
of the evening. On one side lay a book with pens and papers, 
on the other, mechanical instruments of various kinds. As 
they approached him unregarded, the princess observed that he 
had not the countenance of a man that had found, or could 
teach the way to happiness. 

They saluted him with great respect, which he repaid like a 
man not unaccustomed to the forms of courts. “ My children,” 
said he, “ if you have lost your way, you shall be willingly sup¬ 
plied with such conveniencies for the night as this cavern will 
afford. I have all that nature requires, and you will not ex¬ 
pect delicacies in a hermit’s cell.” 

They thanked him; and, entering, were pleased with the 
neatness and regularity of the place. The hermit set flesh and 
wine before them, though he fed only upon fruits and water. 
His discourse was cheerful without levity, and pious without 
enthusiasm. He soon gained the esteem of his guests, and the 
princess repented of her hasty censure. 

At last Imlac began thus : “ I do not now wonder that your 
reputation is so far extended : we have heard at Cairo of your 
wisdom, and came hither to implore your direction for this 
young man and maiden in the choice of life” 

“ To him that lives well,” answered the hermit, “ every form 
of life is good ; nor can I give any other rule for choice than 
to remove from all apparent evil.” 

“ He will remove most certainly from evil,” said the prince, 


RASSELAS. 


46 

“ who shall devote himself to that solitude which you have re¬ 
commended by your example.” 

“ I have indeed lived fifteen years in solitude,” said the 
hermit, “ but have no desire that my example should gain any 
imitators. In my youth I professed arms, and was raised by 
degrees to the highest military rank. I have traversed wide 
countries at the head of my troops, and seen many battles and 
sieges. At last, being disgusted by the preferments of a 
younger officer, and feeling that my vigor was beginning to de¬ 
cay, I resolved to close my life in peace, having found the 
world full of snares, discord, and misery. I had once escaped 
from the pursuit of the enemy by the shelter of this cavern, and 
therefore chose it for my final residence. I employed artificers 
to form it into chambers, and stored it with all that I was likely 
to want. 

“For some time after my retreat, I rejoiced like a tempest 
beaten sailor at his entrance into the harbor, being delighted 
with the sudden change of the noise and hurry of war to still¬ 
ness and repose. When the pleasures of novelty went away, I 
employed my hours in examining the plants which grew in the 
valley, and the minerals which I collected from the rocks. But 
that inquiry is now grown tasteless and irksome. I have been 
for some time unsettled and distracted: my mind is disturbed 
with a thousand perplexities of doubt, and vanities of imagina¬ 
tion, which hourly prevail upon me, because I have no oppor¬ 
tunities of relaxation or diversion. I am sometimes ashamed 
to think that I could not secure myself from vice, but by re¬ 
tiring from the exercise of virtue, and begin to suspect that I 
was rather impelled by resentment than led by devotion into 
solitude. My fancy riots in scenes of folly, and I lament that 
I have lost so much, and have gained so little. In solitude, if 
I escape the example of bad men, I want likewise the counsel 
and conversation of the good. I have been long comparing 
the evils with the advantages of society, and resolve to return 
into the world to-morrow. The life of a solitary man will be 
certainly miserable, but not certainly devout.” 

They heard his resolution with surprise, but after a short 
pause offered to conduct him to Cairo. He dug up a con¬ 
siderable treasure which he had hid among the rocks, and 
accompanied them to the city, on which, as he approached it, 
he gazed with rapture. 


KASSEL AS. 


47 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The Happiness of a Life led according to Nature. 

Rasselas went often to an assembly of learned men, who 
met at stated times to unbend their minds, and compare their 
opinions. Their manners were somewhat coarse, but their 
conversation was instructive, and their disputations acute, 
though sometimes too violent, and often continued till neither 
controvertist remembered upon what question they began. 
Some faults were almost general among them : everyone was 
desirous to dictate to the rest, and everyone was pleased to 
hear the genius or knowledge of another depreciated. 

In this assembly Rasselas was relating his interview with 
the hermit, and the wonder with which he heard him censure a 
course of life which he had so deliberately chosen, and so 
' laudably followed. The sentiments of the hearers were vari- 
: ous. Some were of opinion that the folly of his choice had 
been justly punished by condemnation to perpetual persever¬ 
ance. One of the youngest among them, with great vehemence, 
pronounced him a hypocrite. Some talked of the right of so- 
1 ciety to the labor of individuals, and considered retirement as 
a desertion from duty. Others readily allowed, that there was 
a time when the claims of the public were satisfied, and when 
a man might properly sequester himself to review his life and 
purify his heart. 

One, who appeared more affected with the narrative than 
the rest, thought it likely that the hermit would, in a few years, 
go back to his retreat, and perhaps, if shame did not restrain, 
or death intercept him, return once more from his retreat into 
the world: “ For the hope of happiness,” said he, “ is so 
strongly impressed that the longest experience is not able to 
efface it. Of the present state, whatever it be, we feel, and are 
forced to confess, the misery; yet, when the same state is again 
at a distance, imagination paints it as desirable. But the time 
will surely come, when desire will be no longer our tormentor, 
and no man shall be wretched but by his own fault.” 

“ This,” said a philosopher, who had heard him with tokens 
of great impatience, “ is the present condition of a wise man. 
The time is already come when none are wretched but by their 
own fault. Nothing is more idle than to inquire after happi- 




RASSELAS. 


48 

ness, which nature has kindly placed within our reach. The 
way to be happy is to live according to nature, in obedience to 
that universal and unalterable law with which every heart is 
originally impressed ; which is not written on it by precept, but 
engraven by destiny, not instilled by education, but infused at 
our nativity. He that lives according to nature will suffer 
nothing from the delusions of hope, or importunities of desire: 
he will receive and reject with equability of temper; and act 
or suffer as the reason of things shall alternately prescribe. 
Other men may amuse themselves with subtle definitions, or 
intricate ratiocinations. Let them learn to be wise by easier 
means : let them observe the hind of the forest, and the linnet 
of the grove : let them consider the life of animals, whose mo¬ 
tions are regulated by instinct: they obey their guide, and are 
happy. Let us therefore, at length, cease to dispute, and learn 
to live ; throw away the incumbrance of precepts, which they 
who utter them with so much pride and pomp do not under¬ 
stand, and carry with us this simple and intelligible maxim, 
That deviation from nature is deviation from happiness.” 

When he had spoken, he looked round him with a placid 
air, and enjoyed the consciousness of his own beneficence. 
“ Sir,” said the prince, with great modesty, “ as I, like all the 
rest of mankind, am desirous of felicity, my closest attention 
has been fixed upon your discourse ; I doubt not the truth of 
a position which a man so learned has so confidently advanced. 
Let me only know what it is to live according to nature ? ” 

“ When I find young men so humble and so docile,” said 
the philosopher, “ I can deny them no information which my 
studies have enabled me to afford. To live according to nature 
is to act always with due regard to the fitness arising from the 
relations and qualities of causes and effects : to concur with 
the great and unchangeable scheme of universal felicity ; to 
co-operate with the general disposition and tendency of the 
present system of things.” 

The prince soon found that this was one of the sages whom 
he should understand less as he heard him longer. He there¬ 
fore bowed and was silent; and the philosopher, supposing 
him satisfied, and the rest vanquished, rose up, and departed 
with the air of a man that had co-operated with the present 
system. 


XASSELAS. 


49 


CHAPTER XXIII, 

The Prince and his Sister divide between them the Work of Observation. 

Rasselas returned home full of reflections, doubtful how to 
direct his future steps. Of the way to happiness he found the 
learned and simple equally ignorant; but, as he was yet young, 
he flattered himself that he had time remaining for more ex¬ 
periments and further inquiries. He communicated to Imlac 
his observations and his doubts, but was answered by him with 
new doubts, and remarks that gave him no comfort. He there¬ 
fore discoursed more frequently and freely with his sister, who 
had yet the same hope with himself, and always assisted him 
to give some reason why, though he had been hitherto frus¬ 
trated, he might succeed at last. 

* “ We have hitherto,” said she, “ known but little of the 
world : we have never yet been either great or mean. In our 
own country, though we had royalty, we had no power; and in 
this we have not yet seen the private recesses of domestic 
peace. Imlac favors not our search, lest we should in time 
find him mistaken. We will divide the task between us: you 
shall try what is to be found in the splendor of courts, and I 
will range the shades of humbler life. Perhaps command and 
authority may be the supreme blessings, as they afford most 
opportunities of doing good ; or, perhaps, what this world can 
give maybe found in the modest habitations of middle fortune ; 
too low for great designs, and too high for penury and distress.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The Prince Examines the Happiness of High Stations. ** 

Rasselas applauded the design, and appeared next day 
with a splendid retinue at the court of the Bassa. He was soon 
distinguished for his magnificence, and admitted, as a prince 
whose curiosity had brought him from distant countries, to an 
intimacy with the great officers, and frequent conversation with 
the Bassa himself. 

He was at first inclined to believe, that the man must be 
pleased with his own condition whom all approached with rever- 



5° 


RASSELAS. 


ence, and heard with obedience, and who had the power to ex¬ 
tend his edicts to a whole kingdom. “ There can be no pleasure,” 
said he, “ equal to that of feeling at once the joy of thousands 
all made happy by wise administration. Yet, since by the law 
of subordination this sublime delight can be in one nation but 
the lot of one, it is surely reasonable to think that there is some 
satisfaction more popular and accessible, and that millions can 
hardly be subjected to the will of a single man, only to fill his 
particular breast with incommunicable content.” 

These thoughts were often in his mind, and he found no 
solution of the difficulty. But as presents and civilities gained 
him more familiarity, he found that almost every man who stood 
high in employment hated all the rest, and was hated by them, 
and that their lives were a continual succession of plots and de¬ 
tections, stratagems and escapes, faction and treachery. Many 
of those who surrounded the Bassa were sent only to watch and 
report his conduct; every tongue was muttering censure, and 
every eye was searching for a fault. 

At last the letters of revocation arrived, the Bassa was car¬ 
ried in chains to Constantinople, and his name was mentioned 
no more. 

“What are we now to think of the prerogatives of power? ” 
said Rasselas to his sister ; “ is it without any efficacy to good ? 
or, is the subordinate degree only dangerous, and the supreme 
safe and glorious ? Is the Sultan the only happy man in his 
dominions ? or, is the Sultan himself subject to the torments 
of suspicion, and the dread of enemies ? ” 

In a short time the second Bassa was deposed. The Sultan 
that had advanced him was murdered by the Janizaries, and 
his successor had other views and different favorites. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

* The Princess Pursues her Inquiry with more Diligence than Success. 


The princess, in the mean time, insinuated herself into 
many families ; for there are few doors through which liberality, 
joined with good humor, cannot find its way. The daughters 
of many houses were airy and cheerful; but Nekayah had been 
too long accustomed to the conversation of Imlac and her 
brother, to be much pleased with childish levity, and prattle which 
had no meaning. She found their thoughts narrow, their wishes 
low, and their merriment often artificial. Their pleasures, poor as 


KASSELAS. 


5« 

they were, could not be preserved pure, but tvere imbittered by 
petty competitions and worthless emulation. They were always 
jealous of the beauty of each other ; of a quality to which solich 
tude can add nothing, and from which detraction can taka 
nothing away. . Many were in love with triflers like themselves, 
and many fancied that they were in love when in truth they 
were only idle. Their affection was not fixed on sense or virtue, 
and therefore seldom ended but in vexation. Their grief, how¬ 
ever, like their joy, was transient: everything floated in their 
mind unconnected with the past or future, so that one desire 
easily gave way to another, as a second stone cast into the 
water effaces and confounds the circles of the first. 

With these girls she played as with inoffensive animals, and 
found them proud of her countenance, and weary of her com¬ 
pany. 

But her purpose was to examine more deeply, and her affa¬ 
bility easily persuaded the hearts that were swelling with sorrow 
to discharge their secrets in her ear: and those whom hope 
flattered, or prosperity delighted, often courted her to partake 
their pleasures. 

The princess and her brother commonly met in the evening 
in a private summer-house on the bank of the Nile, and related 
to each other the occurrences of the day. As they were sitting 
together, the princess cast her eyes upon the river that flowed 
before her. “ Answer,” said she, “ great father of waters, thou 
that rollest thy floods through eighty nations, to the invocations 
of the daughter of thy native king. Tell me if thou waterest 
through all thy course, a single habitation from which thou dost 
not hear the murmurs of complaint! ” 

“ You are then,” said Rasselas, “ not more successful in 
private houses than I have been in courts.” “ I have, since 
the last partition of our provinces,” said the princess, “enabled 
myself to enter familiarly into many families, where there was 
| the fairest show of prosperity and peace, and know not one 
house that is not haunted by some fury that destroys their 
quiet. 

“ I did not seek ease among the poor, because I concluded 
that there it could not be found. But I saw many poor, whom 
I had supposed to live in affluence. Poverty has, in large cities, 
very different appearances: it is often concealed in splendor, 
and often in extravagance. It is the care of a very great part 
of mankind to conceal their indigence from the rest; they sup¬ 
port themselves by temporary expedients, and every day is lost 
» contriving for the morrow. 






&a$s£la$. 


“ This, however, was an evil which, though frequent, I saw 
with less pain, because I could relieve it. Yet some have 
refused my bounties ; more offended with my quickness to detect 
their wants than pleased with my readiness to succor them, and 
others, whose exigencies compelled them to admit my kindness, 
have never been able to forgive their benefactress. Many* 
however, have been sincerely grateful, without the ostentation 
ef gratitude, or the hope of other favors.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The Princess Continues her Remarks upon Private Life. 

Neka yah, perceiving her brother’s attention fixed, pro¬ 
ceeded in her narrative. 

“ In families, where there is or is not poverty, there is 
commonly discord : if a kingdom be, as Imlac tells us, a great 
family, a family likewise is a little kingdom, torn with factions 
and exposed to revolutions. An unpracticed observer expects 
the love of parents and children to be constant and equal; 
but this kindness seldom continues beyond the years of 
infancy; in a short time the children become rivals to their 
parents. Benefits are allayed by reproaches, and gratitude 
debased by envy. 

“ Parents and children seldom act in concert: each child 
endeavors to appropriate the esteem or fondness of the 
parents, and the parents, with yet less temptation, betray each 
other to their children: thus some place their confidence in 
the father, and some in the mother, and by degrees the house 
is filled with artifices and feuds. 

“ The opinions of children and parents, of the young and 
the old, are naturally opposite, by the contrary effects of hope 
and despondence, of expectation and experience, without 
crime or folly on either side. The colors of life in youth and 
age appear different, as the face of nature in spring and 
winter. And how can children credit the assertions of pa¬ 
rents, which their own eyes show them to be false ? 

“ Few parents act in such a manner as much to enforce 
their maxims by the credit of their lives. The old man trusts 
wholly to slow contrivance and gradual progression : the youth 
expects to force his way by genius, vigor, and precipitance. 
The old man pays regard to riches, and the youth reverences 
virtue. The old man defies prudence : the youth commits 


RASSELAS. 


53 

himself to magnanimity and chance. The young man, who 
intends no ill, believes that none is intended, and therefore 
acts with openness and candor; but his father, having suf¬ 
fered the injuries of fraud, is impelled to suspect, and too 
often allured to practice it. Age looks with anger on the 
temerity of youth, and youth with contempt on the scrupulosity 
of age. Thus parents and children, for the greatest part, live 
on to love less ai d less: and if those whom nature has thus 
closely united are the torments of each other, where shall we 
look for tenderness and consolation.” 

“ Surely,” said the prince, “you must have been unfortunate 
in your choice of acquaintance : I am unwilling to believe, that 
the most tender of all relations is thus impeded in its effects 
by natural necessity.” 

“ Domestic discord,” answered she, “ is not inevitably and 
fatally necessary; but yet it is not easy to avoid. We seldom 
see that a whole family is virtuous; the good and evil cannot 
well agree ; and the evil can yet less agree with one another; 
even the virtuous fall sometimes to variance, when their virtues 
* are of different kinds, and tending to extremes. In general, 
those parents have most reverence that most deserve it: for he 
that lives well cannot be despised. 

“ Many other evils infest private life. Some are the slaves 
of servants whom they have trusted with their affairs. Some 
i are kept in continual anxiety by the caprice of rich relations, 

I whom they cannot please and dare not offend. Some hus¬ 
bands are imperious, and some wives perverse: and as it is 
always more easy to do evil than good, though the wisdom or 
virtue of one can very rarely make many happy, the folly or 
vice of one may often make many miserable.” 

“ If such be the general effect of marriage,” said the prince, 

! “I shall, for the future, think it dangerous to connect my 
interest with that of another, lest I should be unhappy by my 
| partner’s fault.” 

“ I have met,” said the princess, “ with many who live 
single for that reason ; but I have never found that their pru¬ 
dence ought to raise envy. They dream away their time with¬ 
out friendship, without fondness, and are driven to rid them- 
! selves of the day, for which they have no use, by childish 
; amusements or vicious delights. They act as beings under the 
| constant sense of some known inferiority, that fills their minds 
i with rancor ; and their tongues with censure. They are 
peevish at home, and malevolent abroad; and, as the outlaws 
of human nature, make it their business and their pleasure tO } 




jRASSELAS. 


$4 

disturb that society which debars them from its privileges. 
To live without feeling or exciting sympathy, to be fortunate 
without adding to the felicity of others, or afflicted without 
tasting the balm of pity, is a state more gloomy than solitude ; 
it is not retreat, but exclusion from mankind. Marriage has 
many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures.” 

“ What, then, is to be done ? ” said Rasselas; “ the more 
we inquire the less we can resolve. Surely he is most likely 
to please himself that has no other inclination or regard.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


Disquisition upon Greatness. 

The conversation had a short pause. The prince, having 
considered his sister’s observations, told her, that she had sur¬ 
veyed life with prejudice, and supposed misery where she did 
not find it. “Your narrative,” says he, “throws yet a darker 
gloom upon the prospects of futurity ; the predictions of Imlac 
were but faint sketches of the evils painted by Nekayah. I 
have been lately convinced that quiet is not the daughter of 
grandeur or of power: that her presence is not to be bought 
by wealth, nor enforced by conquest. It is evident, that as 
any man acts in a wider compass, he must be more exposed 
to opposition from enmity, or miscarriage from chance ; who¬ 
ever has many to please or to govern must use the ministry of 
many agents, some of whom will be wicked, and some ignor¬ 
ant ; by some he will be misled, and by others betrayed. If 
he gratifies one, he will offend another : those that are not 
favored will think themselves injured : and, since favors can 
be conferred but upon few, the greater number will be always 
discontented.” 

“The discontent,” said the princess, “which is thus un¬ 
reasonable, I hope that I shall always have spirit to despise, 
and you power to repress.” 

“ Discontent,” answered Rasselas, “ will not always be with¬ 
out reason under the most just and vigilant administration of 
public affairs. None, however attentive, can always discover 
that merit which indulgence or faction may happen to obscure ; 
and none, however powerful, can always reward it. Yet he 
that sees inferior desert advanced above him will naturally im¬ 
pute that preference to partiality or caprice \ and, indeed, it can 
scarcely be hoped that any man, however magnanimous by 


KASSELAS. 


55 

nature, or exalted by condition, will be able to persist forever 
in the fixed and inexorable justice of distribution ; he will some¬ 
times indulge his own affections, and sometimes those of his 
favorites; he will permit some to please him who can never 
serve him; he will discover, in those whom he loves, qualities 
which in reality they do not possess; and to those, from whom 
he receives pleasure, he will in his turn endeavor to give it. 
Thus will recommendations sometimes prevail which were pur¬ 
chased by money, or by the more destructive bribery of flattery 
and servility. 

“ He that has much to do will do something wrong, and of 
that wrong must suffer the consequences; and if it were pos¬ 
sible that he should always act rightly, yet when such numbers 
are to judge of his conduct, the bad will censure and obstruct 
him by malevolence, and the good sometimes by mistake. 

“ The highest stations cannot therefore hope to be abodes 
of happiness, which I would willingly believe to have fled from 
thrones and palaces to seats of humble >rivacy and placid ob¬ 
scurity. For what can hinder the satisfaction, or intercept the 
expectations, of him whose abilities are adequate to his employ¬ 
ments, who sees with his own eyes the whole circuit of his influ¬ 
ence, who chooses by his own knowledge all whom he trusts, 
and whom none are tempted to deceive by hope or fear? 
Surely he has nothing to do but to love and to be loved, to be 
virtuous, and to be happy.” 

“ Whether perfect happiness would be procured by perfect 
goodness,” said Nekayah, “ this world will never afford an op¬ 
portunity of deciding. But this, at least, may be maintained, 
that we do not always find visible happiness in proportion to 
visible virtue. All natural and almost all political evils are 
incident alike to the bad and good: they are confounded in the 
misery of a famine, and not much distinguished in the fury of 
a faction ; they sink together in a tempest, and are driven 
together from their country by invaders. All that virtue can 
afford is quietness of conscience, a steady prospect of a hap¬ 
pier state ; this may enable us to endure calamity with patience \ 
but remember that patience must suppose pain.” 

i4 





RASSELAS. 


56 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Rasselas and Nekeyah Continue their Conversation. 


“ Dear princess,” said Rasselas, “ you fall into the common 
errors of exaggeratory declamation, by producing, in a familiar 
disquisition, examples of national calamities, and scenes of ex¬ 
tensive misery, which are found in books rather than in the 
world, and which, as they are horrid, are ordained to be rare. 
Let us not imagine evils which we do not feel, nor injure life 
by misrepresentations. I cannot bear that querulous eloquence 
which threatens every city with a siege like that of Jerusalem, 
that makes famine attend on every flight of locusts, and sus¬ 
pends pestilence on the wing of every blast that issues from the 
south. 

“ On necessary and inevitable evils, which overwhelm king¬ 
doms at once, all disputation is vain: when they happen, they 
must be endured. But it is evident that these bursts of universal 
distress are more dreaded than felt; thousands and ten thousands 
flourish in youth and wither in age, without the knowledge of 
any other than domestic evils, and share the same pleasures and 
vexations, whether their kings are mild or cruel, whether the 
armies of their country pursue their enemies or retreat before 
them. While courts are disturbed with intestine competitions, 
and ambassadors are negotiating in foreign countries, the smith 
still plies his anvil, and the husbandman drives his plough for¬ 
ward : the necessaries of life are required and obtained; and 
the successive business of the seasons continues to make its 
wonted revolutions. 

“ Let us cease to consider what, perhaps, may never happen, 
and what, when it shall happen, will laugh at human specula¬ 
tion. We will not endeavor to modify the motions of the ele¬ 
ments, or to fix the destiny of kingdoms. It is our business to 
consider what beings like us may perform; each laboring for 
his own happiness by promoting within his circle, however nar¬ 
row, the happiness of others. 

“ Marriage is evidently the dictate of nature; men and women 
are made to be companions of each other, and therefore I can¬ 
not be persuaded but that marriage is one of the means of hap¬ 
piness.” * 

“I know not,” said the princess, “whether marriage be 
more than one of the innumerable modes of human misery. 


RASSELAS. 


57 

When I see and reckon the various forms of connubial infelicity, 
the unexpected causes of lasting discord, the diversities of 
temper, the oppositions of opinion, the rude collisions of contrary 
desire where both are urged by violent impulses, the obstinate con¬ 
tests of disagreeable virtues where both are supported by con¬ 
sciousness of good intention, I am sometimes disposed to think, 
with the severer casuists of most nations, that marriage is rather 
permitted than approved, and that none, but by the instigation 
of a passion too much indulged, entangle themselves with in¬ 
dissoluble compacts.” 

“You seem to forget,” replied Rasselas, “that you have, 
even now, represented celibacy as less happy than marriage. 
Both conditions may be bad, but they cannot both be worst. 
Thus it happens when wrong opinions are entertained, that 
they mutually destroy each other, and leave the mind open to 
truth.” 

“ I did not expect,” answered the princess, “ to hear that 
imputed to falsehood which is the consequence only of frailty. 
To the mind, as to the eye, it is difficult to compare with exact¬ 
ness objects vast in their extent, and various in their parts. 
Where we see or conceive the whole at once, we readily note 
the discriminations, and decide the preference; but of two sys¬ 
tems, of which neither can be surveyed by any human being in 
its full compass of magnitude and multiplicity of complication, 
where is the wonder that, judging of the whole by parts, I am 
alternately affected by one and the other, as either presses on 
my memory or fancy? We differ from ourselves just as we differ 
from each other, when we see only parts of the question, as in 
the multifarious relations of politics and morality; but when we 
perceive the whole at once, as numerical computations, all agree 
in one judgment, and none ever varies his opinion.” 

“ Let us not add,” said the prince, “ to the other evils of 
life the bitterness of controversy, nor endeavor to vie with each 
other in subtilties of argument. We are employed in a search, 
of which both are equally to enjoy the success, or suffer by the 
miscarriage. It is therefore fit that we assist each other. You 
surely conclude too hastily from the infelicity of marriage 
against its institution : will not the misery of life prove equally 
that life cannot be the gift of Heaven ? The world must be 
peopled by marriage, or peopled without it.” 

“How the world is to be peopled,” returned Nekayah, “is 
not my care, and needs not be yours. I see no danger that the 
present generation should omit to leave successors behind them: 
we ^re not now inquiring for the world, but for ourselves.” 



S» 


EASSELAS. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The Debate of Marriage Continued. 

“The good of the whole,” says Rasselas, “is the same 
with the good of all its parts. If marriage be best for man¬ 
kind, it must be evidently best for individuals, or a permanent 
and necessary duty must" be the cause of evil, and some must 
be inevitably sacrificed to the convenience of others. In the 
estimate which you have made of the two states, it appears that 
the incommodities of a single life are, in a great measure, 
necessary and certain, but those of the conjugal state accidental 
and avoidable. 

“ I cannot forbear to flatter myself, that prudence and ben¬ 
evolence will make marriage happy. The general folly of man¬ 
kind is the cause of general complaint. What can be expected 
but disappointment and repentance from a choice made in the 
immaturity of youth, in the ardor of desire, without judgment, 
without foresight, without inquiry after conformity of opinions, 
similarity of manners, rectitude of judgment, or purity of senti¬ 
ment ? 

“Such is the common process of marriage. A youth or 
maiden meeting by chance, or brought together by artifice, ex¬ 
change glances, reciprocate civilities, go home, and dream of 
one another. Having little to divert attention, or diversify 
thought, they find themselves uneasy when they are apart, and 
therefore conclude that they shall be happy together. They 
marry, and discover what nothing but voluntary blindness be¬ 
fore had concealed; they wear out life in altercations, and 
charge nature with cruelty. 

“ From those early marriages proceeds likewise the rivalry 
of parents and children; the son is eager to enjoy the world 
before the father is willing to forsake it, and there is hardly 
room at once for two generations. The daughter begins to 
bloom before the mother can be content to fade, and neither 
can forbear to wish for the absence of the other. 

“ Surely all these evils may be avoided by that deliberation 
and delay which prudence prescribes to irrevocable choice. In 
the variety and jollity of youthful pleasures life may be well 
enough supported without the help of a partner. Longer time 
will increase experience, and wider views will allow better 


KASSELAS 


59 

opportunities of inquiry and selection : one advantage, at least, 
will be certain; the parents will be visibly older than their 
children.” 

■2* “What reason cannot collect,” said Nekayah, “and what 
experiment has not yet taught, can be known only from the re¬ 
port of others. I have been told that late marriages are not 
eminently happy. This is a question too important to be 
neglected, and I have often proposed it to those whose accu¬ 
racy of remark and comprehensiveness of knowledge made 
their suffrages worthy of regard. They have generally deter¬ 
mined that it is dangerous for a man and woman to suspend 
their fate upon each other, at a time when opinions are fixed, 
and habits are established; when friendships have been con¬ 
tracted on both sides, when life has been planned into method, 
and the mind has long enjoyed the contemplation of its owp> 
prospects. 

“It is scarcely possible that two, travelling through the 
world, under the conduct of chance, should have been both 
directed to the same path, and it will not often happen that 
either will quit the track which custom has made pleasing. 
When the desultory levity of youth has settled into regularity, 
it is soon succeeded by pride ashamed to yield, or obstinacy 
delighting to contend. And even though mutual esteem pro¬ 
duces mutual desire to please, time itself, as it modifies un¬ 
changeably the external mien, determines likewise the direction 
of the passions, and gives an inflexible rigidity to the manners. 
Long customs are not easily broken : he that attempts to change 
the course of his own life very often labors in vain: and how 
shall we do that for others, which we are seldom able to do for 
ourselves ? ” 

“ But surely,” interposed the prince, “ you suppose the chief 
motive of choice forgotten or neglected. Whenever I shall 
seek a wife, it shall be my first question, whether she be willing 
to be led by reason ? ” 

“ Thus it is,” said Nekayah, “ that philosophers are de¬ 
ceived. There are a thousand familiar disputes which reason 
never can decide; questions that elude investigation, and 
make logic ridiculous; cases where something must be done, 
and where little can be said. Consider the state of mankind, 
and inquire how few can be supposed to act upon any occa¬ 
sions, whether small or great, with all the reasons of action 
present to their minds. Wretched would be the pair above all 
names of wretchedness, who should be doomed to adjust by 
reason, every morning, all the minute detail of a domestic day. 





6o 


RASSELAS. 


“Those who marry at an advanced age will probably escape 
the encroachments of their children; but, in diminution of this 
advantage, they will be likely to leave them, ignorant and help¬ 
less, to a guardian’s mercy: or, if that should not happen, they 
must at least go out of the world before they see those whom 
they love best either wise or great. 

“ From their children, if they have less, to fear, they 
have less also to hope; and they lose, without equivalent, the 
joys of early love, and the convenience of uniting with manners 
pliant, and minds susceptible of new impressions, which might 
wear atfay their dissimilitudes by long cohabitation; as soft 
bodies, 6y continual attrition, conform their surfaces to each 
other. 

“ I believe it will be found that those who marry late are 
best pleased with their children, and those who marry early 
with their partners.” 

“The union of these two affections,” said Rasselas, “would 
produce all that could be wished. Perhaps there is a time 
when marriage might unite them, a time neither too early for 
the father, nor too late for the husband.” 

“Every hour,” answered the princess, “confirms my preju¬ 
dice in favor of the position so often uttered by the mouth of 
Imlac, ‘ That nature sets her gifts on the right hand and on the 
left.’ Those conditions, which flatter hope and attract desire, 
are so constituted, that, as we approach one, we recede from 
another. There are goods so opposed that we cannot seize 
both, but, by too much prudence, may pass between them at 
too great a distance to reach either. This is often the fate of 
long consideration; he does nothing who endeavors to do 
more than is allowed to humanity. Flatter not yourself with 
contrarieties of pleasure. Of the blessings set before you make 
your choice, and be content. No man can taste the fruits of 
autumn while he is delighting his scent with the flowers of 
spring: no man can, at the same time, fill his cup from the 
source and from the mouth of the Nile.” 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Imlac enters, and changes the Conversation. 

Here Imlac entered and interrupted them. “ Imlac,” said 
Rasselas, “ I have been taking from the princess the dismal 
history of private life, and am almost discouraged from further 
search” 


E ASSET, AS. 


61 


“ It seems to me,” said Imlac, “ that while you are making 
the choice of life, you neglect to live. You wander about a 
single city, which, however large and diversified, can now afford 
few novelties, and forget that you are in a country famous 
among the earliest monarchies for the power and wisdom of its 
inhabitants; a country where the sciences first dawned that 
illuminate the world, and beyond which the arts cannot be 
traced of civil society or domestic life. 

“ The old Egyptians have left behind them monuments of 
industry and power, before which all European magnificence is 
confessed to fade away. The ruins of their architecture are 
the schools of modern builders, and from the wonders which 
time has spared, we may conjecture, though uncertainly, what 
it has destroyed.” 

“ My curiosity,” said Rasselas, “ does not very strongly lead 
me to survey the piles of stone or mounds of earth ; my 
business is with man. I came hither not to measure fragments 
of temples, or trace choked aqueducts, but to look upon the 
various scenes of the present world.” 

“The things that are now before us,” said the princess, 
“ require attention and deserve it. What have I to do with the 
heroes or the monuments of ancient times ? with times which 
never can return, and heroes, whose form of life was different 
from all that the present condition of man requires or allows ? ” 

“ To know anything,” returned the poet, “ we must know 
its effects; to see men we must see their works, that we may 
learn what reason has dictated, or passion has incited, and find 
what are the most powerful motives of action. To judge rightly 
of the present, we must oppose it to the past; for all judgment 
is comparative, and of the future nothing can be known. The 
truth is, that no mind is much employed upon the present : 
recollection and anticipation fill up almost all our moments. 
Our passions are joy and grief, love and hatred, hope and fear. 
Of joy and grief the past is the object, and the future of hope and 
fear ; even love and hatred respect the past, for the cause must 
have been before the effect. 

“ The present state of things is the consequence of the for¬ 
mer, and it is natural to inquire what were the sources of the 
good that we enjoy, or the evil that we suffer. If we act only 
for ourselves, to neglect the study of history is not prudent: if 
we are intrusted with the care of others, it is not just. Ignor¬ 
ance, when it is voluntary, is criminal; and he may be properly 
charged with evil who refused to learn how he might prevent it. 

“ There is no part of history so generally useful as that which 


62 


EASSELAS : 


relates the progress of the human mind, the gradual improve¬ 
ment of reason, the successive advances of science, the vicissi¬ 
tudes of learning and ignorance, which are the light and dark¬ 
ness of thinking beings, the extinction and resuscitation of arts, 
and the revolutions of the intellectual world. If accounts of 
battles and invasions are peculiarly the business of princes, 
the useful or elegant arts are not to be neglected; those who 
have kingdoms to govern have understandings to cultivate. 

“ Example is always more e-fficacious than precept. A sol¬ 
dier is formed in war, and a painter must copy pictures. In 
this, contemplative life has the advantage: great actions are 
seldom seen, but the labors of art are always at hand for those 
who desire to know what art has been able to perform. 

“ When the eye or the imagination is struck with an uncom¬ 
mon work, the next transition of an active mind is to the means 
by which it was performed. Here begins the true use of such 
contemplation; we enlarge our comprehension by new ideas, 
and perhaps recover some art lost to mankind, or learn what 
is less perfectly known in our own country. At least we com¬ 
pare our own with former times, and either rejoice at our im¬ 
provements, or, what is the first motion towards good, discover 
our defects.” 

“ I am willing,” said the prince, “ to see all that can deserve 
my search.” “ And I,” said the princess, “ shall rejoice to 
learn something of the manners of antiquity.” 

“ The most pompous monument of Egyptian greatness, and 
one of the most bulky works of manual industry,” said Imlac, 
“ are the Pyramids ; fabrics raised before the time of history, 
and of which the earliest narratives afford us only uncertain 
traditions. Of these the greatest is still standing, very little 
injured by time.” 

“Let us visit them to-morrow,” said Nekayah. “I have 
often heard of the Pyramids, and shall not rest until I have seen, 
them within and without with my own eyes.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

They visit the Pyramids. 

The resolution being taken, they set out the next day. 
They laid tents upon their camels, being resolved to stay among 
the Pyramids till their curiosity was fully satisfied. They trav¬ 
elled gently, turned aside to everything remarkable, stopped 


EASSELAS. 


6 3 

from time to time and conversed with the inhabitants, and 
observed the various appearances of towns ruined and inhabited, 
of wild and cultivated nature. 

When they came to the great Pyramid, they were astonished 
at the extent of the base, and the height of the top. Imlac ex¬ 
plained to them the principles upon which the pyramidal form 
was chosen for a fabric intended to co-extend its duration with 
that of the world: he showed that its gradual diminution gave 
it such stability as defeated all the common attacks of the ele¬ 
ments, and could scarcely be overthrown by earthquakes them¬ 
selves, the least resistible of natural violence. A concussion 
that should shatter the Pyramid would threaten the dissolution 
of the continent. 

They measured all its dimensions, and pitched their tents 
at its foot. Next day they prepared to enter its interior apart¬ 
ments ; and, having hired the common guides, climbed up to 
the first passage, when the favorite of the princess, looking 
into the cavity, stepped back and trembled. “ Pekuah,” said 
the princess, “ of what art thou afraid ? ” “ Of the narrow en¬ 

trance,” answered the lady, “ and of the dreadful gloom. I 
dare not enter a place which must surely be inhabited by un¬ 
quiet souls. The original possessors of these dreadful vaults 
will start up before us, and perhaps shut us in forever.” She 
spoke, and threw her arms round the neck of her mistress. 

“ If all your fear be of apparitions,” said the prince, “ I 
will promise you safety; there is no danger from the dead; he 
that is once buried will be seen no more.” 

“ That the dead are seen no more,” said Imlac, “ I will not 
undertake to maintain, against the concurrent and unvaried 
testimony of all ages and of all nations. There is no people, 
rude or learned, among whom apparitions of the dead are not 
related and believed. This opinion, which perhaps prevails as 
far as human nature is diffused, could become universal only 
by its truth; those that never heard of one another would not 
have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience can make 
credible. That it is doubted by single cavillers can very little 
weaken the general evidence ; and some who deny it with their 
tongues confess it by their fears. 

“ Yet I do not mean to add new terrors to those which have 
already seized upon Pekuah. There can be no reason why 
spectres should haunt the Pyramid more than other places, or 
why they should have power or will to hurt innocence and purity. 
Our entrance is no violation of their privileges; we can take 
nothing from them, how then can we offend them ? ” 




64 


RASSZLAS. 


“ My deaf Pekuah,” said the princess, “ I will always go 
before you, and Imlac shall follow you. Remember that you 
are the companion of the princess of Abyssinia.” . ^ 

“ If the princess is pleased that her servant should die,” 
returned the lady, “ let her command some death less dreadful 
than enclosure in this horrid cavern ; you know I dare not dis¬ 
obey you ; I must go if you command me ; but, if I once enter, 
I never shall come back.” 

The princess saw that her fear was too strong for expostu¬ 
lation or reproof; and, embracing her, told her that she should 
stay in the tent till their return. Pekuah was yet not satisfied, 
but entreated the princess not to pursue so dreadful a purpose 
as that of entering the recesses of the Pyramid. “ Though I 
cannot teach courage,” said Nekayah, “ I must not learn 
cowardice; nor leave at last undone what I came hither only 
to do,” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

They enter the Pyramid. 

Pekuah descended to the tents, and the rest entered the 
Pyramid : they passed through the galleries, surveyed the vaults 
of marble, and examined the chest in which the body of the 
founder is supposed to have been reposited. They then sat 
down in one of the most spacious chambers to rest awhile be¬ 
fore they attempted to return. 

“ We have now,” said Imlac, “ gratified our minds with an 
exact view of the greatest work of man, except' the wall of 
China. 

“ Of the wall it is very easy to assign the motive. It 
secured a wealthy and timorous nation from the incursions of 
barbarians, whose unskilfulness in the arts made it easier for 
them to supply their wants by rapine than by industry, and 
who from time to time poured in upon the habitations of peace¬ 
ful commerce, as vultures descend upon domestic fowl. Their 
celerity and fierceness rendered the wall necessary, and their 
Ignorance made it efficacious. 

“ But for the Pyramids no reason has ever been given ade¬ 
quate to the cost and labor of the work. The narrowness of 
the chambers proves that it could afford no retreat from ene¬ 
mies, and treasures might have been reposited at far less ex¬ 
pense with equal security. It seems to have been erected only 


J?ASS£LA£ 


6 $ 

in compliance with that hunger of imagination which preys in¬ 
cessantly upon life, and must be always appeased by some em¬ 
ployment. Those who have already all that they can enjoy 
must enlarge their desires. He that has built for use, till use 
is supplied, must begin to build for vanity, and extend his plan 
to the utmost power of human performance, that he may not 
be soon reduced to form another wish. 

“ I consider this mighty structure as a monument of the in¬ 
sufficiency of human enjoyments. A king, whose power is un¬ 
limited, and whose treasures surmount all real and imaginary 
wants, is compelled to solace, by the erection of a Pyramid, 
the satiety of dominion and tastelessness of pleasures, and to 
amuse the tediousness of declining life, by seeing thousands 
laboring without end, and one stone, for no purpose, laid upon 
another. Whoever thou art that, not content with a mod¬ 
erate condition, imaginest happiness in royal magnificence, and 
dreamest that comman’d or riches can feed the appetite of 
novelty with perpetual gratifications, survey the Pyramids, and 
confess thy folly.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The Princess meets with an unexpected Misfortune. 

They rose up, and returned through the cavity at which 
they had entered, and the princess prepared for her favorite a 
long narrative of dark labyrinths and costly rooms, and of the 
different impressions which the varieties of the way had made 
upon her. But when they came to their train, they found every 
one silent and dejected; the men discovered shame and fear 
in their countenances, and the women were weeping in the 
tents. 

What had happened they did not try to conjecture, but im¬ 
mediately inquired. “ You had scarcely entered into the 
Pyramid,” said one of the attendants, “ when a troop of Arabs 
rushed upon us : we were too few to resist them, and too slow 
to escape. They were about to search the tents, set us on our 
camels, and drive us along before them, when the approach of 
gome Turkish horsemen put them to flight; but they seized 
the lady Pekuah with her two maids, and carried her away ; 
the Turks are now pursuing them by our instigation, but I fear 
they will not be able to overtake them.” 

The princess was overpowered with surprise and grief. 




66 


RASSELAS. 


Rasselas, in the first heat of his resentment, ordered his ser¬ 
vants to follow him, and prepared to pursue the robbers with 
his sabre in his hand. “ Sir,” said Imlac, “ what can you hope 
from violence or valor? the Arabs are mounted on horses 
trained to battle and retreat; we have only beasts of burden. 
By leaving our present station we may lose the princess, but 
cannot hope to regain Pekuah.” 

In a short time the Turks returned, having not been able to 
reach the enemy. The princess burst out into new lamenta¬ 
tions, and Rasselas could scarcely forbear to reproach them with 
cowardice ; but Imlac was of opinion that the escape of the 
Arabs was no addition to their misfortune, for perhaps they 
would have killed their captives rather than have resigned them. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

They return to Cairo without Pekuah. 


There was nothing to be hoped from longer stay. They 
returned to Cairo, repenting of their curiosity, censuring the 
negligence of the government, lamenting their own rashness, 
which had neglected to procure a guard, imagining many expe¬ 
dients by which the loss of Pekuah might have been prevented, 
and resolving to do something for her recovery, though none 
could find anything proper to be done. 

Nekayah retired to her chamber, where her women at¬ 
tempted to comfort her, by telling her that all had their trou¬ 
bles, and that lady Pekuah had enjoyed much happiness in the 
world for a long time, and might reasonably expect a change 
of fortune. They hoped that some good would befall her 
wheresoever she was, and that their mistress would find another 
friend who might supply her place. 

The princess made them no answer, ana they continued the 
form of condolence, not much grieved in their hearts that the 
favorite was lost. 

Next day the prince presented to the Bassa a memorial of 
the wrong which he had suffered, and a petition for redress. 
The Bassa threatened to punish the robbers, but did not at¬ 
tempt to catch them, nor indeed could any account or descrip¬ 
tion be given by which he might direct the pursuit. 

It soon appeared that nothing would be done by authority. 
Governors being accustomed to hear of more crimes than they 
can punish, and more wrongs than they can redress, set thera- 

1 


&ASSELAS. 67 

Selves at ease by indiscriminate negligence, and presently for¬ 
get the request when they lose sight of the petitioner. 

Imlac then endeavored to gain some intelligence by private 
agents. He found many who pretended to an exact knowledge 
of all the haunts of the Arabs, and to regular correspondence 
with their chiefs, and who readily undertook the recovery of 
Pekuah. Of these, some were furnished with money for their 
journey and came back no more ; some were liberally paid for 
accounts which a few days discovered to be false. But the 
princess would not suffer any means, however improbable, to 
be left untried. While she was doing something, she kept her 
hope alive. As one expedient failed, another was suggested; 
when one messenger returned unsuccessful, another was de¬ 
spatched to a different quarter. 

Two months had now passed, and of Pekuah nothing had 
been heard; the hopes which they had endeavored to raise in 
each other grew more languid ; and the princess, when she saw 
nothing more to be tried, sunk down inconsolable in hopeless 
dejection. A thousand times she reproached herself with the 
easy compliance by which she permitted her favorite to stay 
behind her. “ Had not my fondness,” said she, “ lessened my 
authority, Pekuah had not dared to talk of her terrors. She 
ought to have feared me more than spectres. A severe look 
would have overpowered her; a peremptory command would 
have compelled obedience. Why did foolish indulgence pre¬ 
vail upon me ? Why did I not speak, and refuse to hear ? ” 

“ Great princess,” said Imlac, “ do not reproach yourself 
for your virtue, or consider that as blamable by which evil has 
accidentally been caused. Your tenderness for the timidity of 
Pekuah was generous and kind. When we act according to 
o.’r duty, we commit the event to Him by whose laws our ac¬ 
tions are governed, and who will suffer none to be finally pun¬ 
ished for obedience. When, in prospect of some good, whether 
natural or moral, we break the rules prescribed us, we withdraw 
from the direction of superior wisdom, and take all conse¬ 
quences upon ourselves. Man cannot so far know the connec¬ 
tion of causes and events, as that he may venture to do wrong 
in order to do right. When we pursue our end by lawful 
means, we may always console our miscarriage by the hope of 
future recompense. When we consult only our own policy, 
and attempt to find a nearer way to good, by overleaping the 
settled boundaries of right and wrong, we cannot be happy 
even by success, because we cannot escape the consciousness 
of our "fault: but, if we miscarry, the disappointment is irreme- 





68 


RASSELAS. 


diably imbittered. How comfortless Is the sorrow of him who 
feels at once the pangs of guilt, and the vexation of calamity 
which guilt has brought upon him ! 

“ Consider, princess, what would have been your condition, 
if the lady Pekuah had entreated to accompany you, and, being 
compelled to stay in the tents, had been carried away ; or how 
you would have borne the thought if you had forced her into 
the Pyramid, and she had died before you in agonies of 
terror ? ” 

“ Had either happened,” said Nekayah, “ I could not have 
endured life till now: I should have been tortured to madness 
by the remembrance of such cruelty, or must have pined away 
in abhorrence of myself.” 

“ This, at least,” said Imlac, is the present reward of vir¬ 
tuous conduct, that no unlucky conseauence can oblige us to 
repent it.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

The Princess languishes for want of Pekuah. 

Nekayah, being thus reconciled to herself, found that no 
evil is insupportable but that which is accompanied with con¬ 
sciousness of wrong. She was from that time delivered from 
the violence of tempestuous sorrow, and sunk into silent pen¬ 
siveness and gloomy tranquillity. She sat from morning to even¬ 
ing recollecting all that had been done or said by her Pekuah, 
treasured up with care every trifle on which Pekuah had set an 
accidental value, and which might recall to mind any little inci¬ 
dent or careless conversation. The sentiments of her, whom 
she now expected to see no more, were treasured in her mem¬ 
ory as rules of life, and she deliberated to no other end than 
to conjecture on any occasion what would have been the opin¬ 
ion and counsel of Pekuah. 

The women by whom she was attended knew nothing of 
her real condition, and therefore she could not talk to them 
but with caution and reserve. She began to remit her curiosity, 
having no great desire to collect notions which she had not 
convenience of uttering. Rasselas endeavored first to comfort, 
and afterwards to divert her; he hired musicians, to whom she 
seemed to listen, but did not hear them; and procured masters 
to instruct her in various arts, whose lectures, when they visited 
her again, were again to be repeated. She had lost her taste 


XASSELAS. 


69 

of pleasure and her ambition of excellence. And her mind, 
though forced into short excursions, always recurred to the 
image of her friend. 

Imlac was every morning earnestly enjoined to renew his 
inquiries, and was asked every night whether he had yet heard 
of Pekuah, till, not being able to return the princess the answer 
that she desired, he was less and less willing to come into her 
presence. She observed his backwardness, and commanded 
him to attend her. “You are not,” said she, “to confound 
impatience with resentment, or to suppose that I charge you 
with negligence, because I repine at your unsuccessfulness. I 
do not much wonder at your absence : I know that the unhappy 
are never pleasing, and that all naturally avoid the contagion 
of misery. To hear complaints is wearisome alike to the 
wretched and the happy ; for who would cloud, by adventitious 
grief, the short gleams of gayety which life allows us ? or who, 
that is struggling under his own evils, will add to them the 
miseries of another ? 

“ The time is at hand when none shall be disturbed any 
longer by the sighs of Nekayah : my search after happiness is 
now at ah end. I am resolved to retire from the world with 
all its flatteries and deceits, and will hide myself in solitude 
without any other care than to compose my thoughts, and regu¬ 
late my hours by a constant succession of innocent occupa¬ 
tions, till, with a mind purified from all earthly desires, I shall 
enter into that state to which all are hastening, and in which I 
hope again to enjoy the friendship of Pekuah.” 

“ Do not entangle your mind,” said Imlac, “ by irrevocable 
determinations, nor increase the burden of life by a voluntary 
accumulation of misery: the weariness of retirement will con¬ 
tinue or increase when the loss of Pekuah is forgotten. That 
you have been deprived of one pleasure is no very good reason 
for rejection of the rest.” 

“ Since Pekuah was taken from me,” said the princess, “ I 
have no pleasure to reject or to retain. She that has no one 
to love or trust has little to hope. She wants the radical 
principle of happiness. We may, perhaps, allow, that what 
satisfaction this world can afford must arise from the conjunc¬ 
tion of wealth, knowledge, and goodness: wealth is nothing 
but as it is bestowed, and knowledge nothing but as it is com¬ 
municated : they must therefore be imparted to others, and to 
whom could I now delight to impart them ? Goodness affords 
the only comfort which can be enjoyed without a partner and 
goodness may be practised in retirement.” 





70 


RASSELAS- 


“ How far solitude may admit goodness, or advance it, I 
shall not,” replied Imlac, “dispute at present.. Remember 
the confession of the pious hermit. You will wish to return 
into the world when the image of your companion has left your 
thoughts.”—“That time,” said Nekayah, “will never come. 
The generous frankness, the modest obsequiousness, and the 
faithful secrecy of my dear Pekuah will always be more missed 
as I shall live longer to see vice and folly.” 

“ The state of a mind oppressed with a sudden calamity,” 
said Imlac, “ is like that of the fabulous inhabitants of the 
new-created earth, who, when the first night came upon them, 
supposed that day would never return. When the clouds of 
sorrow gather over us, we see nothing beyond them, nor can 
imagine how they will be dispelled: yet a new day succeeded 
to the night, and sorrow is never long without a dawn of ease. 
But they who restrain themselves from receiving comfort do as 
the savages would have done, had they put out their eyes when 
it was dark. Our minds, like our bodies, are in continual flux; 
something is hourly lost, and something acquired. To lose 
much at once is inconvenient to either, but while the vital 
powers remain uninjured nature will find the means of repara¬ 
tion. Distance has the same effect on the mind as on the eye : 
and while we glide along the stream of time, whatever we leave 
behind us is always lessening, and that which we approach in¬ 
creasing in magnitude. Do not suffer life to stagnate ; it will 
grow muddy for want of motion : commit yourself again to the 
current of the world ; Pekuah will vanish by degrees ; you will 
meet in your way some other favorite, or learn to diffuse your¬ 
self in general conversation.” 

“ At least,” said the prince, “ do not despair before all 
remedies have been tried ; the inquiry after the unfortunate 
lady is still continued, and shall be carried on with yet greater 
diligence, on condition that you will promise to wait a year for 
the event, without any unalterable resolution.” 

Nekayah thought this a reasonable demand, and made the 
promise to her brother, who had been advised by Imlac to 
require it. Imlac had, indeed, no great hope of regaining 
Pekuah; but he supposed, that if he could secure the interval 
of a year, the princess would then be in no danger of a cloister* 


RASSELAS. 


r* 


CHAPTER XXXVT. 

Pekuah is still remembered. The progress of Sorrow. 

Neka yah, seeing that nothing was omitted for the recovery 
0- her favorite, and having, by her promise, set her intention of 
retirement at a distance, began imperceptibly to return to com¬ 
mon cares and common pleasures. She rejoiced without her 
own consent at the suspension of her sorrows, and sometimes 
caught herself with indignation in the act of turning away her 
mind from the remembrance of her, whom she yet resolved 
never to forget. 

She then appointed a certain hour of the day for medita¬ 
tion on the merits and fondness of Pekuah, and for some weeks 
retired constantly at the time fixed, and returned with her eyes 
swollen and her countenance clouded. By degrees she grew 
less scrupulous, and suffered any important and pressing 
avocation to delay the tribute of daily tears. She then yielded 
to less occasions ; sometimes forgot what she was indeed afraid 
to remember, and at last wholly released herself from the duty 
of periodical affliction. 

Her real love of Pekuah was not yet diminished. A thou¬ 
sand occurrences brought her back to memory, and a thousand 
wants, which nothing but the confidence of friendship can sup¬ 
ply, made her frequently regretted. She therefore solicited I in- 
lac never to desist from inquiry, and to leave no art of intel¬ 
ligence untried, that at least she might have the comfort of 
knowing that she did not suffer by negligence or sluggishness. 
“ Yet what,” said she, “ is to be expected from our pursuit of 
happiness, when we find the state of life to be such, that hap¬ 
piness itself is the cause of misery ? Why should we endeavor 
to attain that of which the possession cannot be secured. I 
shall henceforward fear to yield my heart to excellence, how¬ 
ever bright, or to fondness, however tender, lest I should lose 
again what I have lost in Pekuah.” 

IS 




RASSELAS. 


1* 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The Princess hears news of Pekuah. 

In seven months, one of the messengers, who had been 
sent away upon the day when the promise was drawn from the 
princess, returned, after many unsuccessful rambles, from the 
borders of Nubia, with an account that Pekuah was in the hand 
of an Arab chief, who possessed a castle or fortress on the ex¬ 
tremity of Egypt. The Arab, whose revenue was plunder, was 
willing to restore her with her two attendants, for two hundred 
ounces of gold. 

The price was no subject of debate. The princess was in 
ecstasies when she heard that her favorite was alive, and might 
so cheaply be ransomed. She could not think of delaying for 
a moment Pekuah’s happiness or her own, but entreated her 
brother to send back the messenger with the sum required. 
Imlac being consulted was not very confident of the veracity 
of the relator, and was still more doubtful of the Arab’s faith, 
who might, if he were too liberally trusted, detain at once the 
money and the captives. He thought it dangerous to put them¬ 
selves in the power of the Arab, by going into his district, and 
could not expect that the rover would so much expose himself 
as to come into the lower country, where he might be seized by 
the forces of the Bassa. 

It is difficult to negotiate where neither wall trust. But Im¬ 
lac, after some deliberation, directed the messenger to propose 
that Pekuah should be conducted by ten horsemen to the mon¬ 
astery of St. Antony, which is situated in the deserts of Upper 
Egypt, where she should be met by the same number, and her 
ransom should be paid. 

That no time might be lost, as they expected that the pro¬ 
posal w r ould not be refused, they immediately began their jour¬ 
ney to the monastery; and when they arrived, Imlac went for¬ 
ward with the former messenger to the Arab’s fortress. Ras- 
selas was desirous to go with them ; but neither his sister nor 
Imlac would consent. The Arab, according to the custom of 
his nation, observed the laws of hospitality with great exactness 
to those who put themselves into his power, and, in a few days 
brought Pekuah with her maids, by easy journeys, to the place 
appointed, where, receiving the stipulated price, he restored 


KASSELAS. 


73 

her with great respect to liberty and her friends, and undertook 
to conduct them back towards Cairo, beyond all danger of rob¬ 
bery or violence. 

The princess and her favorite embraced each other with 
transport too violent to be expressed, and went out together to 
pour the tears of tenderness in secret, and exchange professions 
of kindness and gratitude. After a few hours they returned 
into the refectory of the convent, where, in the presence of the 
prior and his brethren, the prince required of Pekuah the his¬ 
tory of her adventures. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The Adventures of the Lady Pekuah. 

At what time and in what manner I was forced away,” 
said Pekuah, “ your servants have told you. The suddenness 
of the event struck me with surprise, and I was at first rather 
stupefied than agitated with any passion of either fear or sorrow'. 
My confusion was increased by the speed and tumult of our 
flight, while we were followed by the Turks, who, as it seemed, 
soon despaired to overtake us, or were afraid of those whom 
they made a show of menacing. 

“When the Arabs saw themselves out of danger they 
slackened their course, and as I was less harassed by external 
violence, I began to feel more uneasiness in my mind. After 
some time we stopped near a spring, shaded with trees, in a 
pleasant meadow, where we were set upon the ground, and 
offered such refreshments as our masters were partaking. I 
was suffered to sit with my maids apart from the rest, and none 
attempted to comfort or insult us. Here I first began to feel 
the full weight of my misery. The girls sat weeping in silence, 
and from time to time looked on me for succor. I knew not to 
what condition we were doomed, nor could conjecture where 
would be the place of our captivity, or whence to draw any 
hope of deliverance. I was in the hands of robbers and savages 
and had no reason to suppose that their pity was more than 
their justice, or that they would forbear the gratification of any 
ardor of desire or caprice of cruelty. I, however, kissed my 
maids, and endeavored to pacify them by remarking, that we 
were yet treated with decency, and that, since we were now 
carried beyond pursuit, there was no danger of violence to our 
lives. 




74 


KASSELAS. 


“ When we were to be set again on horseback, my maids 
clung round me, and refused to be parted, but I commanded 
them not to irritate those who had us in their power. We 
travelled the remaining part of the day through an unfrequented 
and pathless country, and came by moonlight to the side of a 
hill, where the rest of the troop was stationed. Their tents 
were pitched and their fires kindled, and our chief was wel¬ 
comed as a man much beloved by his dependants. 

“ We were received into a large tent, where we found women 
who had attended their husbands in the expedition. They set 
before us the supper which they had provided, and I ate it 
rather to encourage my maids than to comply with any appetite 
of my own. When the meat was taken away they spread the 
carpets for repose. I was weary, and hoped to find in sleep 
that remission of distress which nature seldom denies. Order¬ 
ing myself therefore to be undressed, I observed that the 
women looked very earnestly upon me, not expecting, I suppose, 
to see me so submissively attended. When my upper vest was 
taken off, they were apparently struck with the splendor of my 
clothes, and one of them timorously laid her hand upon the 
embroidery. She then went out, and in a short time came back 
with another woman, who seemed to be of higher rank and 
greater authority. She did, at her entrance, the usual act of 
reverence, and, taking me by the hand, placed me in a smaller 
tent, spread with finer carpets, where I spent the night quietly 
with my maids. 

“ In the morning, as I was setting on the grass, the chief of 
the troop came towards me. I rose up to receive him, and he 
bowed with great respect. ‘ Illustrious lady/ said he, ‘ my 
fortune is better than I had presumed to hope ; I am told by 
my women, that I have a princess in my camp.’—‘ Sir/ an¬ 
swered I, ‘your women have deceived themselves and you ; I 
am not a princess, but an unhappy stranger who intended soon 
to have left this country, in which I am now to be imprisoned 
forever.’—‘ Whoever, or whencesoever you are,’ returned the 
Arab, ‘ your dress, and that of your servants, show your rank 
to be high, and your wealth to be great. Why should you, who 
can so easily procure your ransom, think yourself in danger of 
perpetual captivity ? The purpose of my incursions is to in¬ 
crease my riches, or, more properly, to gather tribute. The 
sons of Ishmael are the natural and hereditary lords of this 
part of the continent, which is usurped by late invaders and 
low-born tyrants, from whom we are compelled to take by the 
sword what is denied to justice. The violence of war admits 


RASSELAS. 


75 

no distinction ; the lance, that is lifted at guilt and power, will 
sometimes fall on innocence and gentleness.’ 

“ ‘How little,’ said I, ‘did I expect that yesterday it should 
have fallen upon me ! ’ 

“ ‘ Misfortunes,’ answered the Arab, should always be ex* 
pected. If the eye of hostility could learn reverence or pity, 
excellence like yours had been exempt from injury. But the 
angels of affliction spread their toils alike for the virtuous and 
the wicked, for the mighty and the mean. Do not be discon¬ 
solate : I am not one of the lawless and cruel rovers of the 
desert; I know the rules of civil life : I will fix your ransom, 
give a passport to your messenger, and perform my stipulation 
with nice punctuality.’ 

“ You will easily believe that I was pleased with his cour¬ 
tesy . and, finding that his predominant passion was desire of 
money, I began now to think my danger less, for I knew that 
no sum would be thought too great for the release of Pekuah. 
I told him that he should have no reason to charge me with in¬ 
gratitude, if I was used with kindness, and that any ramsom 
which could be expected from a maid of common rank would 
be paid, but that he must not persist to rate me as a princess. 
He said he would consider what he should demand, and then, 
smiling, bowed and retired. 

“ Soon after the women came about me, each contending 
to be more officious than the other, and my maids themselves 
were served with reverence. We travelled onward by short 
journeys. On the fourth day the chief told me, that my ran¬ 
som must be two hundred ounces of gold ; which I not only 
promised him, but told him that I would add fifty more, if I 
and my maids were honorably treated. 

“ I never knew the power of gold before. From that time I 
was the leader of the troop. The march of every day was 
longer or shorter as I commanded, and the tents were pitched 
where I chose to rest. We now had camels and other con¬ 
veniences for travel, my own women were always at my side, 
and I amused myself with observing the manners of the va¬ 
grant nations, and with viewing remains of ancient edifices, with 
which these deserted countries appear to have been, in some 
distant age, lavishly embellished. 

“The chief of the band was a man far from illiterate: he 
was able to travel by the stars or the compass, and had marked, 
in his erratic expeditions, such places as are most worthy the 
notice of a passenger. He observed to me, that buildings are 
always best preserved in places little frequented and difficult 





RASSELAS. 


76 

of access ; for, when once a country declines from its primitive 
splendor, the more inhabitants are left, the quicker ruin will be 
made. Walls supply stones more easily than quarries, and 
palaces and temples will be demolished, to make stables of 
granite, and cottages of porphyry.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

The Adventures of Pekuah continued. 

“We wandered about in this manner for some weeks, 
whether, as our chief pretended, for my gratification, or, as I 
rather suspected, for some convenience of his own. I endeav¬ 
ored to appear contented where sullenness and resentment 
would have been of no use, and that endeavor conduced much 
to the calmness of my mind ; but my heart was always with 
Nekayah, and the troubles of the night much overbalanced the 
amusements of the day. My women, who threw all their cares 
upon their mistress, set their minds at ease from the time when 
they saw me treated with respect, and gave themselves up to 
the incidental alleviations of our fatigue without solicitude or 
sorrow. I was pleased with their pleasure, and animated with 
their confidence. My condition had lost much of its terror, 
since I found that the Arab ranged the country merely for 
riches. Avarice is a uniform and tractable vice: other intel¬ 
lectual distempers are different in different constitutions of 
mind; that which soothes the pride of one will offend the 
pride of another ; but to the favor of the covetous there is a 
ready way ; bring money, and nothing is denied. 

“ At last we came to the dwelling of our chief, a strong 
and spacious house built with stone in an island of the Nile, 
which lies, as I was told, under the tropic. ‘ Lady/ said the 
Arab, ‘ you shall rest after your journey a few weeks in this 
place, where you are to consider yourself as sovereign. My 
occupation is war: I have therefore chosen this obscure resi¬ 
dence, from which I can issue unexpected, and to which I can 
retire unpursued. You may now repose in security : here are 
few pleasures, but here is no danger.’ He then led me into 
the inner apartments, and, seating me on the richest couch, 
bowed to the ground. His women, who considered me as a 
rival, looked on me with malignity; but being soon informed 
that I was a great lady detained only for my ransom, they 
began to vie with each other in obsequiousness and reverence. 


RASSELAS. 


11 

“Being again comforted with new assurances of speedy 
liberty, I was for some days diverted from impatience by the 
novelty of the place. The turrets overlooked the country to a 
great distance, and afforded a view of many windings of the 
stream. In the day I wandered from one place to another, as 
the course of the sun varied the splendor of the prospect, and 
saw many things which I had never seen before. The croco¬ 
diles and river-horses are common in this unpeopled region, 
and I often looked upon them with terror, though I knew that 
they could not hurt me. For some time I expected to see 
mermaids and tritons, which, as Imlac has told me, the Eu¬ 
ropean travellers have stationed in the Nile ; but no such 
beings ever appeared, and the Arab, when I inquired after 
them, laughed at my credulity. 

“ At night the Arab always attended me to a tower set 
apart for celestial observations, where he endeavored to teach 
me the names and courses of the stars. I had no great incli¬ 
nation to this study, but an appearance of attention was neces¬ 
sary to please my instructor, who valued himself for his skill ; 
and, in a little while, I found some employment requisite to 
beguile the tediousness of time, which was to be passed always 
amidst the same objects. I was weary of looking in the morn¬ 
ing on things from which I had turned away weary in the 
evening; I therefore was at last willing to observe the stars 
rather than do nothing, but could not always compose my 
thoughts, and was very often thinking on Nekayah, when 
others imagined me contemplating the sky. Soon after the 
Arab went upon another expedition, and then my only pleasure 
was to talk with my maids about the accident by which we 
were carried away, and the happiness that we should ail enjoy 
at the end of our captivity.” 

k ‘ There were women in your Arab’s fortress,” said the prin¬ 
cess, “ why did you not make them your companions, enjoy 
their conversation, and partake their diversions ? In a place 
where they found business' or amusement, why should you 
alone sit corroded with idle melancholy? or why could not 
you bear for a few months that condition to which they were 
condemned for life ? ” 

“ The diversions of the women,” answered Pekuah, “ were 
only childish play, by which the mind, accustomed to stronger 
operations, could not be kept busy. I could do all which they 
delighted in doing by powers merely sensitive, while my intel¬ 
lectual faculties were flown to Cairo. They ran from room to 
room, as a bird hops from wire to wire in his cage. They 





RASSELAS. 


1$ 

danced for the sake of motion, as lambs frisk in a meadow. 
One sometimes pretended to be hurt, that the rest might be 
alarmed ; or hid herself, that another might seek her. Part of 
their time passed in watching the progress of light bodies that 
floated on the river, and part in marking the various forms 
into which clouds broke in the sky. 

“ Their business was only needlework, in which I and my 
maids sometimes helped them; but you know that the mind 
will easily straggle from the fingers, nor will you suspect that 
captivity and absence from Nekayah could receive solace from 
silken flowers. 

“ Nor was much satisfaction to be hoped from their conver¬ 
sation ; for of what could they be expected to talk ? They had 
seen nothing : for they had lived from early youth in that nar¬ 
row spot : of what they had not seen they could have no 
knowledge, for they could not read. They had no ideas but of 
the few things that were within their view, and had hardly 
names for anything but their clothes and their food. As I 
bore a superior character, I was often called to terminate their 
quarrels, which I decided as equitably as I could. If it could 
have amused me to hear the complaints of each against the 
rest, I might have been often detained by long stories ; but 
the motives of their animosity were so small that I could not 
listen without interrupting the tale.” 

“ How,” said Rasselas, “ can the Arab, whom you repre¬ 
sented as a man of more than common accomplishments, take 
any pleasure in his seraglio, when it is filled only with women 
like these ? Are they exquisitely beautiful ? ” 

“ They do not,” said Pekuah, “ want that unaffecting and 
ignoble beauty which may subsist without sprightliness or sub¬ 
limity, without energy of thought or dignity of virtue. But to 
a man like the Arab such beauty was only a flower casually 
plucked and carelessly thrown away. Whatever pleasures he 
might find among them, they were not those of friendship or 
society. When they were playing about him, he looked on 
them with inattentive superiority; when they vied for his 
regard, he sometimes turned away disgusted. As they had no 
knowledge, their talk could take nothing from the tediousness 
of life ; as they had no choice, their fondness, or appearance 
of fondness, excited in him neither pride nor gratitude: he 
was not exalted in his own esteem by the smiles of a woman 
who saw no other man, nor was much obliged by that regard, 
of which he could never know the sincerity, and which he 
might often perceive to be exerted, not so much to delight him 


KASSELAS. 


» 

As to pain a rival. That which he gave, and they received, as 
love, was only a careless distribution of superfluous time, such 
love as man can bestow upon that which he despises, such as 
has neither hope nor fear, neither joy nor sorrow.” 

“ You have reason, lady, to think yourself happy,” said 
Imlac, “ that you have been thus easily dismissed. How could 
a mind, hungry for knowledge, be willing, in an intellectual 
famine, to lose such a banquet as Pekuah’s conversation ? ” 

“ I am inclined to believe,” answered Pekuah, “ that he 
was for some time in suspense ; for notwithstanding his prom¬ 
ise, whenever I proposed to despatch a messenger to Cairo, he 
found some excuse for delay. While I was detained in his 
house he made many excursions into the neighboring coun¬ 
tries, and, perhaps, he would have refused to discharge me, 
had his plunder been equal to his wishes. He returned always 
courteous, related his adventures, delighted to hear my obser¬ 
vations, and endeavored to advance my acquaintance with 
the stars. When I importuned him to send away my letters, 
he soothed me with professions of honor and sincerity: and, 
when I could be no longer decently denied, put his troop again 
in motion, and left me to govern in his absence. I was much 
afflicted by this studied procrastination, and was sometimes 
afraid that I should be forgotten ; that you would leave Cairo, 
and I must end my days in an island of the Nile. 

“ I grew at last hopeless and dejected, and cared so little 
to entertain him that he for a while more frequently talked 
with my maids. That he should fall in love with them, or 
with me, might have been equally fatal, and I was not much 
pleased with the growing friendship. My anxiety was not 
long; for, as I recovered some degree of cheerfulness, he 
I returned to me. and I could not forbear to despise my former 
I uneasiness. 

“ He still delayed to send for my ransom, and would, per¬ 
haps, never have determined, had not your agent found his 
i way to him. The gold, which he would not fetch, he could 
not reject when it was offered. He hastened to prepare for 
our journey hither, like a man delivered from the pain of an 
intestine conflict. I took leave of my companions in the 
house, who dismissed me with cold indifference.” 

Nekayah, having heard her favorite’s relation, rose and 
embraced her; and Rasselas gave her a hundred ounces of 
gold, which she presented to the Arab for the fifty that were 
promised. 







8o 


XASSXZAS. 


CHAPTER XL. 

The History of a Man of Learning. 

They returned to Cairo, and were so well pleased at find¬ 
ing themselves together that none of them went much abroad. 
The prince began to love learning, and one day declared to 
Imlac, that he intended to devote himself to science, and pass 
the rest of his days in literary solitude. 

“ Before you make your final choice,” answered Imlac, 
“ you ought to examine its hazards, and converse with some of 
those who are grown old in the company of themselves. I 
have just left the observatory of one of the most learned astron¬ 
omers in the world, who has spent forty years in unwearied 
attention to the motions and appearances of the celestial 
bodies, and has drawn out his soul in endless calculations. He 
admits a few friends once a month to hear his deductions and 
enjoy his discoveries. I was introduced as a man of knowl¬ 
edge worthy of his notice. Men of various ideas and fluent 
conversation are commonly welcome to those whose thoughts 
have been long fixed upon a single point, and who find the 
images of other things stealing away. I delighted him with 
my remarks; he smiled at the narrative of my travels ; and 
was glad to forget the constellations, and descend for a moment 
into the lower world. 

“ On the next day of vacation I renewed my visit, and was 
so fortunate as to please him again. He relaxed from that 
time the severity of his rule, and permitted me to enter at my 
own choice. 1 found him always busy, and always glad to be 
relieved. As each knew much which the other was desirous of 
learning, we exchanged our notions with great delight. I per¬ 
ceived that I had every day more of his confidence, and always 
found new cause of admiration in the profundity of his mind. 
His comprehension is vast, his memory capacious and retentive, 
his discourse is methodical, and his expression clear. 

‘ His integrity and benevolence are equal to his learning. 
His deepest researches and most favorite studies are willingly 
interrupted for an opportunity of doing good by his counsel or 
his riches. To his closest retreat, at his most busy moments, 
all are admitted that want his assistance : ‘ For, though I ex¬ 
clude idleness and pleasure, I will never,’ says he, ‘ bar my 


KASSELAS. 


81 


doors against charity. To man is permitted the contemplation 
of the skies, but the practice of virtue is commanded.’ ” 

“ Surely,” said the princess, “ this man is happy.” 

“ I visited him,” said Imlac, “ with more and more fre¬ 
quency, and was every time more enamored of his conversa¬ 
tion ; he was sublime without haughtiness, courteous without 
formality, and communicative without ostentation. I was at 
first, great princess, of your opinion, thought him the happiest 
of mankind, and often congratulated him on the blessing that 
he enjoyed. He seemed to hear nothing with indifference but 
the praises of his condition, to which he always returned a 
general answer, and diverted the conversation to some other 
topic. 

“ Amidst this willingness to be pleased and labor to please, 
I had quickly reason to imagine that some painful sentiment 
pressed upon his mind. He often looked up earnestly towards 
the sun, and let his voice fall in the midst of his discourse. 
He would sometimes, when we were alone, gaze upon me in 
silence with the air of a man who longed to speak what he was 
yet resolved to suppress. He would often send for me, with 
vehement injunctions of haste, though, when I came to him, he 
had nothing extraordinary to say. And sometimes, when I 
was leaving him, he would call me back, oause a few moments, 
and then dismiss me.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

The Astronomer discovers the cause of his uneasiness. 


“ At last the time came when the secret burst his reserve. 
We were sitting together last night in the turret of his house, 
watching the emersion of a satellite of Jupiter. A sudden 
tempest clouded the sky, and disappointed our observation. 
We sat a while silent in the dark, and then he addressed him¬ 
self to me in these words :—‘ Imlac, I have long considered thy 
friendship as the greatest blessing of my life. Integrity with¬ 
out knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without in¬ 
tegrity is dangerous and dreadful. I have found in thee all the 
qualities requisite for trust, benevolence, experience, and forti¬ 
tude. I have long discharged an office which I must soon 
quit at the call of nature, and shall rejoice, in the hour of im¬ 
becility and pain, to devolve it upon thee/ 

“ I thought myself honored by this testimony, and protested, 





g 2 1?ASS£IAS. 

that whatever would conduce to his happiness would add like* 
wise to mine. 

“ Hear, Imlac, what thou wilt not without difficulty credit. 
I have possessed for five years the regulation of the weather 
and the distribution of the seasons ; the sun has listened to my 
dictates, and passed from tropic to tropic by my direction ; 
the clouds, at my call, have poured their waters, and the Nile 
has overflowed at my command ; I have restrained the rage of 
the dog-star, and mitigated the fervors of the crab. The winds 
alone, of all the elemental powers, have hitherto refused my 
authority, and multitudes have perished by equinoctial tempest, 
which I have found myself unable to prohibit or restrain. I 
have administered this great office with exact justice, and made 
to the different nations of the earth an impartial dividend of 
rain and sunshine. What must have been the misery of half 
the globe if I had limited the clouds to particular regions, or 
confined the sun to either side of the equator ? ’ ” 


CHAPTER XLI1. 

The Opinion of the Astronomer *« explained and justified. 

“ I suppose he discovered in me, through the obscurity of 
the room, some tokens of amazement and doubt, for, after a 
short pause, he proceeded “thus : 

“ ‘ Not to be easily credited will neither surprise nor offend 
me; for I am, probably, the first of human beings to whom 
this trust has been imparted. Nor do I know whether to deem 
the distinction a reward or punishment; since I have possessed 
it I have been far less happy than before, and nothing but the 
consciousness of good intention could have enabled me to 
support the weariness of unremitted vigilance.’ 

“ ‘ How long, sir,’ said I, ‘ has this great office been in your 
hands ?’ 

“ ‘ About ten years ago,’ said he, ‘ my daily observations of 
the changes of the sky led me to consider whether, if I had 
the power of the seasons, I could confer greater plenty upon 
the inhabitants of the earth. This contemplation fastened 
upon my mind, and I sat days and nights in imaginary 
dominion, pouring upon this country and that the showers of 
fertility, and seconding every fall of rain with a due propor¬ 
tion^ sunshine. I had yet only the will to do good, and did 
not imagine that I should ever have the power. 


EASSELAS. 


83 

tl ‘ One day, as I was looking on the fields withering with 
heat, I felt in my mind a sudden wish that I could send min 
on the southern mountains, and raise the Nile to an inunda¬ 
tion. In the hurry of my imagination I commanded rain to 
fall; and, by comparing the time of my command with that of 
the inundation, I found that the clouds had listened to my 
lips.’ 

“ ‘ Might not some other cause/ said I, ‘ produce this con¬ 
currence? the Nile does not always rise on the same day.’ 

“ ‘ Do not believe/ said he with impatience, ‘ that such ob¬ 
jections could escape me: I reasoned long against my own 
conviction, and labored against truth with the utmost obstinacy. 
I sometimes suspected myself of madness, and should not 
have dared to impart this secret but to a man like you, capable 
of distinguishing the wonderful from the impossible, and the 
incredible from the false.’ 

“‘Why, sir/ said I, ‘do you call that incredible which you 
know, or think you know, to be true?’ 

“ ‘ Because/ said he, ‘ I cannot prove it by any external 
evidence; and I know too well the laws of demonstration to 
think that my conviction ought to influence another, who can¬ 
not, like me, be conscious of its force. I therefore shall not 
attempt to gain credit by disputation. It is sufficient that I 
feel this power, that I have long possessed, and every day ex¬ 
erted it. But the life of man is short, the infirmities of age 
increase upon me, and the time will soon come when the regu¬ 
lator of the year must mingle with the dust. The care of ap¬ 
pointing a successor has long disturbed me; the night and the 
day have been spent in comparisons of all the characters which 
have come to my knowledge, and I have vet found none so 
worthy as thyself.’ ” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

The Astronomer leaves Imlac his directions. 

“ ‘ Hear, therefore, what I shall impart with attention, such 
as the welfare of a world requires. If the task of a king be 
considered as difficult, who has the care only of a few millions, 
to v/hom he cannot do much good or harm, what must be the 
anxiety of him on whom depends the action of the elements, 
and the great gifts of light and heat?—Hear me therefore with 
attention.’ 





KASSELAS. 


U 

“ 1 1 have diligently considered the position of the earth 
and sun, and formed innumerable schemes in which I changed 
their situation. I have sometimes turned aside the axis of the 
earth, and sometimes varied the ecliptic of the sun: but I 
have found it impossible to make a disposition by which the 
world may be advantaged; what one region gains another 
loses by an imaginable alteration, even without considering the 
distant parts of the solar system with which we are acquainted. 
Do not, therefore, in thy administration of the year, indulge 
thy pride by innovation; do not please thyself with thinking 
that thou canst make thyself renowned to all future ages, by 
disordering the seasons. The memory of mischief is no de¬ 
sirable fame. Much less will it become thee to let kindness or 
interest prevail. Never rob other countries of rain to pour it 
on thine own. For us the Nile is sufficient.’ 

“ I promised, that when I possessed the power, I would 
use it with inflexible integrity; and he dismissed me, pressing 
my hand. ‘ My heart,’ said he, ‘ will be now at rest, and my 
benevolence will no more destroy my quiet; I have found a 
man of wisdom and virtue, to whom I can cheerfully bequeath 
the inheritance of the sun.’ ” 

The prince heard this narration with very serious regard ; 
but the princess smiled, and Pekuah convulsed herself with 
laughter. “ Ladies,” said Imlac, “ to mock the heaviest of 
human afflictions is neither charitable nor wise. Few can 
attain this man’s knowledge and .ew practise his virtues ; but 
all may suffer his calamity. Of the uncertainties of our 
present state, the most dreadful and alarming is the uncertain 
continuance of reason.” 

The princess was recollected, and the favorite was abashed. 
Rasselas, more deeply affected, inquired of Imlac, whether he 
thought such maladies of the mind frequent, and how they 
were contracted ? 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

The dangerous prevalence of Imagination. 

“ Disorders of intellect,” answered Imlac, “ happen much 
more often than superficial observers will easily believe. Per¬ 
haps, if we speak with rigorous exactness, no human mind is 
in its right state. There is no man whose imagination does not 
sometimes predominate over his reason, who can regulate his at- 


RASSELAS. 


tention wholly by his will, and whose ideas will come and go at 
his command. No man will be found in whose mind airy no¬ 
tions do not sometimes tyrannize, and force him to hope or 
fear beyond the limits of sober probability. All power of 
fancy over reason is a degree of insanity ; but while this power 
is such as we can control and repress, it is not visible to others, 
nor considered as any depravation of the mental faculties : It 
is not pronounced madness but when it becomes ungovernable, 
and apparently influences speech or action. 

“ To indulge the power of fiction, and send imagination out 
upon the wing, is often the sport of those who delight too much 
in silent speculation. When we are alone we are not always 
busy; the labor of excogitation is too violent to last long; the 
ardor of inquiry will sometimes give way to idleness or satiety. 
He who has nothing external that can divert him must find 
pleasure in his own thoughts, and must conceive himself what 
he is not; for who is pleased with what he is ? He then ex¬ 
patiates in boundless futurity, and culls from all imaginable 
conditions that which for the present moment he should most 
desire, amuses his desires with impossible enjoyments, and 
confers upon his pride unattainable dominion. The mind 
dances from scene to scene, unites all pleasures in all combina¬ 
tions, and riots in delights which nature and fortune, with all 
their bounty, cannot bestow. 

“ In time some particular train of ideas fixes the attention; 
all other intellectual gratifications are rejected; the mind, in 
weariness or leisure, recurs constantly to the favorite concep¬ 
tion, and feasts on the luscious falsehood whenever she is 
offended with the bitterness of truth. By degrees the reign of 
fancy is confirmed; she grows first imperious, and in time des¬ 
potic. Then fictions begin to operate as realities, false opin¬ 
ions fasten upon the mind, and life passes in dreams of rapture 
or of anguish. 

“ This, sir, is- one of the dangers of solitude, which the her¬ 
mit has confessed not always to promote goodness, and the 
astronomer’s misery has proved to be not always propitious to 
wisdom.” 

“ I will no more,” said the favorite, “ imagine myself the 
queen of Abyssinia. I have often spent the hours, which the 
princess gave to my own disposal, in adjusting ceremonies and 
regulating the court; I have repressed the pride of the power¬ 
ful, and granted the petitions of the poor; I have built new 
palaces in more happy situations, planted groves upon the tops 
or mountains, and have exulted in the beneficence of royalty, 




56 


RASSELAS. 


till, when the princess entered, I had almost forgotten to bow 
down before her.” 

“And I,” said the princess, “will not allow myself any 
more to play the shepherdess in my waking dreams. I have 
often soothed my thoughts with the quiet and innocence of 
pastoral employments, till I have, in my chamber, heard the 
winds whistle and the sheep bleat: sometimes freed the lamb 
entangled in the thicket, and sometimes with my crook encoun¬ 
tered the wolf. I have a dress like that of the village maids, 
which I put on to help my imagination, and a pipe, on which I 
play softly, and suppose myself followed by my flocks.” 

“ I will confess,” said the prince, “ an indulgence of fantas¬ 
tic delight more dangerous than yours. I have frequently en¬ 
deavored to image the possibility of a perfect government, by 
which all wrong should be restrained, all vice reformed, and all 
the subjects preserved in tranquillity and innocence. This 
thought produced innumerable schemes of reformation, and dic¬ 
tated many useful regulations and salutary edicts. This has 
been the sport, and sometimes the labor, of my solitude ; and 
I start, when I think with how little anguish I once supposed 
the death of my father and my brothers.” 

“ Such,” says Imlac, “ are the effect of visionary schemes. 
When we first form them we know them to be absurd, but fa¬ 
miliarize them by degrees, and in time lose sight of their folly.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

They Discourse with an Old Man. 

The evening was now far passed, and they rose to return 
home. As they walked along the bank of the Nile, delighted 
with the beams of the moon quivering on the water, they saw 
at a small distance an old man, whom the prince had often 
heard in the assembly of the sages. “Yonder,” said he, “is 
one whose years have calmed his passions, but not clouded his 
reason : let us close the disquisitions of the night by inquiring 
what are his sentiments of his own state, that we may know 
whether youth alone is to struggle with vexation, and whether 
any better hope remains for the latter part of life.” 

Here the sage approached and saluted them. They in¬ 
vited him to join their walk, and prattled a while, as acquaint¬ 
ances that had unexpectedly met one another. The old man 
was cheerful and talkative, and the way seemed short in his 


RASSELAS. 


*7 

company. He was pleased to find himself not disregarded, 
accompanied them to their house, and, at the prince’s request, 
entered with them. They placed him in the seat of honor, and 
set wine and conserves before him. 

“ Sir,” said the princess, “ an evening walk must give to a 
man of learning, like you, pleasures which ignorance and youth 
can hardly conceive. You know the qualities and the causes 
of all that you behold, the laws by which the river flows, the 
periods in which the planets perform their revolutions. Every¬ 
thing must supply you with contemplation, and renew the con¬ 
sciousness of your own dignity.” 

“ Lady,” answered he, “ let the gay and the vigorous expect 
pleasure in their excursions ; it is enough that age can obtain 
ease. To me the world has lost its novelty: I look round and 
see what I remember to have seen in happier days. I rest 
against a tree, and consider that in the same shade I once dis¬ 
puted upon the annual overflow of the Nile with a friend who 
is now silent in the grave. I cast my eyes upwards, fix them 
on the changing moon, and think with pain on the vicissitudes 
of life. I have ceased to take much delight in physical truth ; 
for what have I to do with those things which I am soon to 
leave ? ” 

“ You may at least recreate yourself,” said Imlac, “ with the 
recollection of an honorable and useful life, and enjoy the 
praise which all agree to give you.” 

“ Praise,” said the sage, with a sigh, “ is to an old man an 
empty sound. I have neither mother to be delighted with the 
reputation of her son, nor wife to partake the honors of her 
husband. I have outlived my friends and my rivals. Nothing 
is now of much importance; for I cannot extend my interest 
beyond myself. Youth is delighted with applause, because it 
is considered as the earnest of some future good, and because 
the prospect of life is far extended : but to me, who am now 
declining to decrepitude, there is little to be feared from the 
malevolence of men, and yet less to be hoped from their affec¬ 
tion or esteem. Something they may yet take away, but they 
can give me nothing. Riches would now be useless, and high 
employment would be pain. My retrospect of life recalls to 
my view many opportunities of good neglected, much time 
squandered upon trifles, and more lost in idleness and vacancy. 
I leave many great designs unattempted, and many great at¬ 
tempts unfinished. My mind is burdened with no heavy crime, 
and therefore I compose myself to tranquillity: endeavor to 
abstract my thoughts from hopes and cares, which, though rea- 




88 


RASSELAS.: 


son knows them to be vain, still try to keep their old possession 
of the heart; expect, with serene humility, that hour which na¬ 
ture cannot long delay: and hope to possess, in a better state, 
that happiness which here I could not find, and that virtue 
which here I have not attained.” 

He rose and went away, leaving his audience not much 
elated with the hope of long life. The prince consoled him¬ 
self with remarking, that it was not reasonable to be disap¬ 
pointed by this account; forage had never been considered as 
the season of felicity ; and if it was possible to be easy in de¬ 
cline and weakness, it was likely that the days of vigor and 
alacrity might be happy: that the noon of life could be bright 
if the evening could be calm. 

The princess suspected that age was querulous and malig¬ 
nant, and delighted to repress the expectations of those who 
had newly entered the world. She had seen the possessors of 
estates look with envy on their heirs, and known many who 
enjoyed pleasure no longer than they could confine it to them¬ 
selves. 

Pekuah conjectured that the man was older than he ap¬ 
peared, and was willing to impute his complaints to delirious 
dejection ; or else supposed that he had been unfortunate, and 
was therefore discontented ; “ For nothing,” said she, “ is more 
common than to call our own condition the condition of life.” 

Imlac, who had no desire to see them depressed, smiled at 
the comforts which they could so readily procure to themselves, 
and remembered, that at the same age he was equally confident 
of unmingled prosperity, and equally fertile of consolatory ex¬ 
pedients. He forbore to force upon them unwelcome knowl¬ 
edge, which time itself would too soon impress. The princess 
and her lady retired ; the madness of the astronomer hung upon 
their minds, and they desired Imlac to enter upon his office, 
and delay next morning the rising of the sun. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

The Princess and Pekuah visit the Astronomer. 

The princess and Pekuah, having talked in private of Imlac’s 
astrononei, thought his character at once so amiable and so 
strange th<*<: they could not be satisfied without a nearer knowl¬ 
edge ; and Imlac was requested to find the nje^ns of bringing 
them together. 


RASSELAS. g 9 

This was somewhat difficult ; the philosopher had never 
received any visits from women, though he lived in a city that 
had in it many Europeans, who followed the manners of their 
own countries, and many from other parts of the world, that 
lived there with European liberty. The ladies would not be 
refused, and several schemes were proposed for the accom¬ 
plishment of their design. It was proposed to introduce them 
as strangers in distress, to whom the sage was always acces¬ 
sible ; but, after some deliberation, it appeared that by this 
artifice no acquaintance could be formed, for their conversation 
would be short, and they could not decently importune him 
often. “ This,” said Rasselas, “ is true; but I have yet a 
stronger objection against the misrepresentation of your state. 
I have always considered it as treason against the great repub¬ 
lic of human nature to make any man’s virtues the means of 
deceiving him, whether on great or little occasions. All im¬ 
posture weakens confidence and chills benevolence. When the 
sage finds that you are not what you seemed, he will feel the 
resentment natural to a man who, conscious of great abilities, 
discovers that he has been tricked by understandings meaner 
than his own; and, perhaps, the distrust, which he can never 
afterwards wholly lay aside, may stop the voice of counsel and 
close the hand of charity ; and where will you find the power 
of restoring his benefactions to mankind or his peace to him¬ 
self?” 

To this no reply was attempted, and Imlac began to hope 
that their curiosity would subside ; but, next day, Pekuah told 
him, she had now found an honest pretence for a visit to the 
astronomer, for she would solicit permission to continue under 
him the studies in which she had been initiated by the Arab, 
and the princess might go with her either as a fellow-student, 
or because a woman could not decently come alone. “ I am 
afraid,” said Imlac, “that he will be soon weary of your com¬ 
pany ; men advanced far in knowledge do not love to repeat 
the elements of their art, and I am not certain that even of the 
elements, as he will deliver them connected with inferences and 
mingled with reflections, you are a very capable auditress.”— 
* That,” said Pekuah, “ must be my care ; I ask of you only 
to take me thither. My knowledge is, perhaps, more than you 
imagine it; and, by concurring always with his opinions, I shall 
make him think it greater than it is.” 

The astronomer, in pursuance of this resolution, was told 
that a foreign lady, travelling in search of knowledge, had 
beard of his reputation, and was desirous to become his scholar. 






RASSELAS. 


9 <5 

The uncommonness of the proposal raised at once his surprise 
and curiosity : and when, after a short deliberation, he consented 
to admit her, he could not stay without impatience till the next 
day. 

The ladies dressed themselves magnificently, and were at¬ 
tended by Imlac to the astronomer, who was pleased to see 
himself approached with respect by persons of so splendid an 
appearance. In the exchange of the first civilities he was 
timorous and bashful; but when the talk became regular, he 
recollected his powers, and justified the character which Imlac 
had given. Inquiring of Pekuah, what could have turned her 
inclination towards astronomy ? he received from her a history 
of her adventure at the pyramid, and of the time passed in the 
Arab’s island. She told her tale with ease and elegance, and 
her conversation took possession of his heart. The discourse 
was then turned to astronomy: Pekuah displayed what she 
knew: he looked upon her as a prodigy of genius, and en¬ 
treated her not to desist from a study which she had so happily 
begun. 

They came again and again, and were every time more wel¬ 
come than before. The sage endeavored to amuse them, that 
they might prolong their visits, for he found his thoughts grow 
brighter in their company; the clouds of solicitude vanished 
by degrees, as he forced himself to entertain them ; and he 
grieved when he was left at their departure to his old employ¬ 
ment of regulating the seasons. 

The princess and her favorite had now watched his lips for 
several months, and could not catch a single word from which 
they could judge whether he continued, or not, in the opinion 
of his preternatual commission. They often contrived to bring 
him to an open declaration : but he easily eluded all their 
attacks, and on which side soever they pressed him escaped 
from them to some other topic. 

As their familiarity increased, they invited him often to the 
house of Imlac, where they distinguished him by extraordinary 
respect. He began gradually to delight in sublunary pleasures. 
He came early, and departed late ; labored to recommend 
himself by assiduity and compliance; excited their curiosity 
after new arts, that they might still want his assistance; and 
when they made any excursion of pleasure or inquiry, entreated 
to attend them. 

By long experience of his integrity and wisdom, the prince 
and his sister were convinced that he might be trusted without 
danger; and, lest he should draw any false hopes from the 


RASSELAS. 


9 1 

civilities which he received, discovered to him their condition, 
with the motives of their journey; and required his opinion on 
the choice of life. 

“ Of the various conditions which the world spreads before 
you, which you shall prefer,” said the sage, “ I am not able to 
instruct you. lean only tell that I have chosen wrong. I have 
passed my time in study without experience ; in the attainment 
of sciences which can, for the most part, be but remotely use¬ 
ful to mankind. I have purchased knowledge at the expense 
of all the common comforts of life ; T have missed the endear¬ 
ing elegance of female friendship, and the happy commerce of 
domestic tenderness. If I have obtained any prerogatives 
above other students, they have been accompanied with fear, 
disquiet, and scrupulosity: but even of these prerogatives, 
whatever they were, I have, since my thoughts have been diver¬ 
sified by more intercourse with the world, begun to question 
the reality. When I have been for a few days lost in pleasing 
dissipation, I am always tempted to think that my inquiries 
have ended in error, and that I have suffered much, and suf¬ 
fered it in vain.” 

Imlac was delighted to find that the sage’/s understanding 
was breaking through its mists, and resolved to detain him from 
the planets till he should forget his task of ruling them, and 
reason should recover its original influence. 

From this time the astronomer was received into familiar 
friendship, and partook of all their projects and pleasures : his 
respect kept him attentive, and the activity of Rasselas did 
not leave much time unengaged. Something was always to be 
done ; the day was spent in making observations, which fur¬ 
nished talk for the evening, and the evening was closed with a 
scheme for the morrow. 

The sage confessed to Imlac, that since he had mingled in 
ihe gay tumults of life, and divided his hours by a succession 
of amusements, he found the conviction of his authority over 
the skies fade gradually from his mind, and began to trust less 
to an opinion which he never could prove to others, and which 
he now found subject to variation, from causes in which reason 
had no part. “ If I am accidentally left alone for a few hours,” 
said he, “ my inveterate persuasion rushes upon my soul, and 
my thoughts are chained down by some irresistible violence ; 
but they are soon disentangled by the prince’s conversation, 
and instantaneously released at the entrance of Pekuah. I am 
like a man habitually afraid of spectres, who is set at ease by a 
lamp, and wonders at the dread whiqh harassed him in the 




RASSELAS. 


92 

dark ; yet, if his lamp be extinguished, feels again the terrors 
which he knows that when it is light he shall feel no more. 
But I am sometimes afraid lest I indulge my quiet by criminal 
negligence, and voluntarily forget the great charge with which 
I am intrusted. If I favor myself in a known error, or am de¬ 
termined by my own ease in a doubtful question of this import¬ 
ance, bow dreadful is my crime ! ” 

“ No disease of the imagination,” answered Imlac, “is so 
difficult of cure as that which is complicated with the dread of 
guilt: fancy and conscience then act interchangeably upon us, 
and so often shift their places that the illusions of one are not 
distinguished from the dictates of the other. If fancypresents 
images not moral or religious, the mind drives them away when 
they give it pain ; but when melancholic notions take the form 
of duty, they lay hold on the faculties without opposition, be¬ 
cause we are afraid to exclude or banish them. For this rea¬ 
son the superstitious are often melancholy, and the melancholy 
almost always superstitious. 

“ But do not let the suggestions of timidity overpower your 
better reason : the danger of neglect can be but as the proba¬ 
bility of the obligation, which, when you consider it with free¬ 
dom, you find very little, and that little growing every day less. 
Open your heart to the influence of the light which, from time 
to time, breaks in upon you: when scruples importune you, 
which you in your lucid moments know to be vain, do not stand 
to parley, but fly to business or to Pekuah, and keep this 
thought always prevalent, that you are only one atom of the 
mass of humanity, and have neither such virtue nor vice as that 
you should be singled out for supernatural favors or afflictions. ,, 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

The Prince, enters, and brings a New Topic. 

“ All this,” said the astronomer, “ I have often thought; 
but my reason has been so long subjugated by an uncontroh 
lable and overwhelming idea that it durst not confide in its own 
decisions. I now see how fatally I betray my quiet, by suffer¬ 
ing chimeras to prey upon me in secret; but melancholy shrinks 
from communication, and I never found a man before to whom 
I could impart my troubles, though I had been certain of relief. 
I rejoice to find my own sentiments confirmed by yours, who 
W not easily deceived, anc] can have no motive or purpose fp 


RASSELAS. 


93 

deceive. I hope that time and variety will dissipate the gloom 
that has so long surrounded me, and the latter part of my days 
will be spent in peace.” 

“ Your learning and virtue,” said Imlac, “ may justly give 
you hopes.” 

Rasselas then entered with the princess and Pekuah, and 
inquired whether they had contrived any new diversion for the 
next day ? “ Such,” said Nekayah, “ is the state of life, that 

none are happy but by the anticipation of change : the change 
itself is nothing; when we have made it, the next wish is to 
change again. The world is not yet exhausted; let me see 
something to-morrow which I never saw before.” 

“Variety,” said Rasselas, 44 is so necessary to content, that 
even the happy valley disgusted me by the recurrence of its 
luxuries yet I could not forbear to reproach myself with impa¬ 
tience when I saw the monks of St. Anthony support, without 
complaint, a life, not of uniform delight, but uniform hardship.” 

“ Those men,” answered Imlac, “ are less wretched in their 
silent convent than the Abyssinian princes in their prison of pleas¬ 
ure. Whatever is done by the monks is incited by an adequate 
and reasonable motive. Their labor supplies them with neces¬ 
saries ; it therefore cannot be omitted, and is certainly rewarded. 
Their devotion prepares them for another state, and reminds them 
of its approach while it fits them for it. Their time is regularly 
distributed : one duty succeeds another, so that they are not left 
open to the distraction of unguided choice, nor lost in the shades 
of listless inactivity. There is a certain task to be performed at 
an appropriated hour; and their toils are cheerful because they 
consider them as acts of piety, by which they are always advan¬ 
cing towards endless felicity.” 

“ Do you think,” said Nekayah, “ that the monastic rule is a 
more holy and less imperfect state than any other ? May not he 
equally hope for future happiness who converses openly with 
mankind, who succors the distressed by his charity, instructs 
the ignorant by his learning, and contributes by his industry to 
the general system of life; even though he should omit some of 
the mortifications which are practised in the cloister, and allow 
himself such harmless delights as his condition may place within 
his reach ? ” 

“ This,” said Imlac, “ is a question which has long divided 
the wise and perplexed the good. I am afraid to decide on either 
part. He that lives well in the world is better than he that lives 
well in a monastery. But, perhaps, every one is not able to stem 
tJje temptations of public life ^ and if he cannot conquer, he may 




RASSELAS. 


94 

properly retreat. Some have little power to do good, and have 
likewise little strength to resist evil. Many are weary of their 
conflicts with adversity, and are willing to eject those passions 
which have long busied them in vain. And many are dismissed 
by age and diseases from the more laborious duties of society. 
In monasteries the weak and timorous may be happily sheltered, 
the weary may repose, and the penitent may meditate. Those 
retreats of prayer and contemplation have something so con¬ 
genial to the mind of man that, perhaps, there is scarcely one that 
does not purpose to close his life in pious abstraction with a few 
associates serious as himself. ,, 

•“ Such,” said Pekuah, “has often been my wish, and I have 
heard the princess declare, that she should not willingly die in 
a crowd.” 

“The liberty of using harmless pleasure,” proceeded Imlac, 
“ will not be disputed; but it is still to be examined what pleas¬ 
ures are harmless. The evil of any pleasure that Nekayah can 
imagine is not in the act itself, but in its consequences. Pleas¬ 
ure, in itself harmless, may become mischievous by endearing 
us to a state which we know to be transient and probatory, and 
withdrawing our thoughts from that of which every hour brings 
us nearer to the beginning, and of which no length of time wilt 
bring us to the end. Mortification is not virtuous in itself, nor 
has any other use but that it disengages us from allurements of 
sense. In the state of future perfection, to which we all aspire, 
there will be pleasure without danger, and security without re¬ 
straint.” 

The princess was silent, and Rasselas, turning to the astron¬ 
omer, asked him “ whether he could not delay her retreat by 
showing her something which she had not seen before ? ” 

“Your curiosity,” said the sage, “has been so general, and 
your pursuit of knowledge so vigorous, that novelties are not 
now very easily to be found; but what you can no longer pro¬ 
cure from the living may be given by the dead. Among the 
wonders of this country are the Catacombs, or the ancient re¬ 
positories in which the bodies of the earliest generations were 
lodged, and where, by the virtue of the gums which embalmed 
them, they yet remain without corruption.” 

“ I know not,” said Rasselas, “ what pleasure the sight of 
the Catacombs can afford; but, since nothing else is offered, I 
am resolved to view them, and shall place this with many other 
things which I have done because I would do something.” 

They hired a guard of horsemen, and the next day visited 
the Catacombs. When they were about to descend into the 


RASSELAS. 


95 

sepulchral caves, u Pelcuah,” said the princess, we are now again 
invading the habitations of the dead; I know that you will stay 
behind ; let me find you safe when I return.”—“ No ; I will not 
be left,” answered Pekuah, “ I will go down between you and 
the prince.” 

They then all descended, and roved with wonder through 
the labyrinth of subterraneous passages, where the bodies were 
laid in rows on either side. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Imlac discourses on the Nature of the Soul. 

“What reason,” said the prince, “can be given why the 
Egyptians should thus expensively preserve those carcasses 
which some nations consume with fire, others lay to mingle 
with the earth, and all agree to remove from their sight as soon 
as decent rites can be performed ? ” 

“ The original ancient custom,” said Imlac, “ is commonly 
unknown; for the practice often continues when the cause has 
ceased ; and concerning superstitious ceremonies it is vain to 
conjecture ; for what reason did not dictate, reason cannot ex¬ 
plain. I have* long believed that the practice of embalming 
arose only from tenderness to the remains of relations or friends, 
and to this opinion I am more inclined because it seems impos¬ 
sible that this care should have been general; had all the dead 
been embalmed, their repositories must in time have been more 
spacious than the dwellings of the living. I suppose only the 
rich or honorable were secured from corruption, and the rest 
left to the course of nature. 

“ But it is commonly supposed that the Egyptians believed 
the soul to live as long as the body continued undissolved, and 
therefore tried this method of eluding death.” 

“ Could the wise Egyptians,” said Nekayah, “ think so grossly 
of the soul ? If the soul could once survive its separation, what 
could it afterwards receive or suffer from the body ? ” 

“ The Egyptians would doubtless think erroneously,” said 
the astronomer, “ in the darkness of heathenism, and the first 
dawn of philosophy. The nature of the soul is still disputed 
amidst all our opportunities of clearer knowledge: some yet 
say that it may be material, who nevertheless believe it to be 
immortal.” 

“ Some,” answered Imlac, “ have indeed said that the soul 



&ASSELA& 


& 

Is material, but I can scarcely believe that any man has thought 
it, who knew how to think; for all the conclusions of reason 
enforce the immateriality of mind, and all the notices of sense 
and investigations of science concur to prove the unconscious¬ 
ness of matter. 

“ It was never supposed that cogitation is inherent in mat¬ 
ter, or that every particle is a thinking being. Yet, if any 
part of matter be devoid of thought, what part can we suppose 
to think ? Matter can differ from matter only in form, density, 
bulk, motion, and direction of motion : to which of these, how¬ 
ever varied or combined, can consciousness be annexed ? To 
be round or square, to be solid or fluid, to be great or little, to 
be moved slowly or swiftly one way or another, are modes of 
material existence, all equally alien from the nature of cogita¬ 
tion. If matter be once without thought, it can only be made 
to think by some new modification, but all the modifications 
which it can admit are equally unconnected with cogitative 
powers.” 

“But the materialists,” said the astronomer, “urge that 
matter may have qualities with which we are unacquainted.” 

“ He who will determine,” returned Imlac, “ against that 
which he knows, because there may be something which he 
knows not ; he that can set hypothetical possibility against 
acknowledged certainty, is not to be admitted among reason¬ 
able beings. All that we know of matter is, that matter is 
inert, senseless, and lifeless; and if this conviction cannot be 
opposed but by referring us to something that we know not, we 
have all the evidence that human intellect can admit. If that 
which is known may be overruled by that which is unknown, 
no being, not omniscient, can arrive at certainty.” 

“ Yet let us not,” said the astronomer, “ too arrogantly 
limit the Creator’s power.” 

“ It is no limitation of omnipotence,” replied the poet, “ to 
suppose that one thing is not consistent with another, that the 
same proposition cannot be at once true and false, that the 
same number cannot be even and odd, that cogitation cannot 
be conferred on that which is created incapable of cogitation.” 

“ I know not,” said Nekayah, “any great use of this ques¬ 
tion. Does that immateriality, which, in my opinion, you 
have sufficiently proved, necessarily include eternal duration ? ” 

“ Of immateriality,” said Imlac, “ our ideas are negative, 
and therefore obscure. Immateriality seems to imply a 
natural power of perpetual duration as a consequence of ex¬ 
emption from all causes of decay: whatever perishes i* 


KASSBLAS. 


97 

destroyed by the solution of its contexture, and separation of 
its parts; nor can we conceive how that which has no parts, 
and therefore admits no solution, can be naturally corrupted 
or impaired.” 

“ I know not,” said Rasselas, “ how to conceive anything 
without extension ; what is extended must have parts, and you 
allow that whatever has parts may be destroyed.” 

“ Consider your own conceptions,” replied Imlac, “ and the 
difficulty will be less. You will find substance without ex¬ 
tension. An ideal form is no less real than material bulk: 

I yet an ideal form has no extension. It is no less certain, when 
you think on a pyramid, that your mind possesses the idea of 
a pyramid than that the pyramid itself is standing. What 
space does the idea of a pyramid occupy more than the idea of 
a grain of corn ? or how can either idea suffer laceration ? As 
is the effect, such is the cause : as thought, such is the power 
that thinks ; a power impassive and indiscerptible.” 

“ But the Being,” said Nekayah, “ whom I fear to name, 
the Being which made the soul, can destroy it.” 

“ He surely can destroy it,” answered Imlac, “ since, how¬ 
ever unperishable, it receives from a superior nature its power 
of duration. That it will not perish by any inherent cause of 
decay, or principle of corruption, may be shown by philosophy; 
but philosophy can tell no more. That it will not be annihi¬ 
lated by him that made it, we must humbly learn from higher 
authority.” The whole assembly stood a while silent and col¬ 
lected. “Let us return,” said Rasselas, “from this scene of 
mortality. How gloomy would be these mansions of the dead 
to him who did not know that he should never die, that what 
now acts shall continue its agency, and what now thinks shall 
think on forever. Those that lie here stretched before us, the 
wise and the powerful of ancient times, warn us to remember 
the shortness of our present state: they were, perhaps, snatched 
away while they were busy like us in the choice of life.” 

“ To me,” said the princess, “ the choice of life is become 
less important; I hope hereafter to think only on the choice 
of eternity.” 

They then hastened out of the caverns and under the 
protection of their guard returned to Cairo. 

7 




9 8 


RASSELA3. 


CHAPTER XLIX, 

The Conclusion, in which nothing is Concluded. 

It was now the time of the inundation of the Nile i a few 
days after their visit to the Catacombs the river began to rise. 

They were confined to their house. The whole region 
being under water gave them no invitation to any excursions, 
and being well supplied with materials for talk, they diverted 
themselves with comparisons of the different forms of life 
which they had observed, and with various schemes of happi¬ 
ness which each of them had formed. 

Pekuah was never so much charmed with any place as the 
convent of St. Anthony, where the Arab restored her to the 
princess, and wished only to fill it with pious maidens, and to 
be made prioress of the order; she was weary of expectation 
and disgust, and would gladly be fixed in some unvariable 
state. 

The princess thought, that of all sublunary things knowl¬ 
edge was the best: she desired first to learn all sciences, and 
then proposed to found a college of learned women, in which 
she would preside, that, by conversing with the old, and 
educating the young, she might divide her time between the 
acquisition and communication of wisdom, and raise up for the 
next age, models of prudence, and patterns of piety. 

The prince desired a little kingdom, in which he might 
administer justice in his own person, and see all the parts of 
government with his own eyes ; but he could never fix the 
limits of his dominion, and was always adding to the number 
of his subjects. 

Imlac and the astronomer were contented to be driven 
along the stream of life, without directing their course to any 
particular port. 

Of these wishes that they had formed they well knew that 
none could be obtained. They deliberated a while what was 
to be done, and resolved, when the inundation should cease, to 
return to Abyssinia. 


THE END, 


THE 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

-A. TALE, 

By OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M. B. 



100 


r IS 





















CHARACTERISTICS 


OF 

GOLDSMITH’S WRITINGS. 


The “ Vicar of Wakefield ” has long been considered one 
of the most interesting tales in our language. It is seldom that 
a story presenting merely a picture of common life, and a detail 
of domestic events, so powerfully affects the reader. The 
irresistible charm this novel possesses, evinces how much may 
be done, without the aid of extravagant incident, to excite the 
imagination and interest the feelings. Few productions of the 
kind afford greater amusement in the perusal, and still fewer 
inculcate more impressive lessons of morality. Though wit 
and humor abound in every page, yet in the whole volume 
there is noc one thought injurious in its tendency, nor one 
sentiment that can offend the chastest ear. Its language, in 
the words of an elegant writer, is what “ angels might have 
heard and virgins told.” In the delineation of his characters, 
in the conduct of his fable, and in the moral of the piece, the 
genius of the author is equally conspicuous. The hero displays 
with unaffected simplicity the most striking virtues that can 
adorn social life ; sincere in his professions, humane and gen¬ 
erous in his disposition, he is himself a pattern of the character 
he represents. The other personages are drawn with similar 
discrimination. Each is distinguished by some peculiar feature ; 
and the general grouping of the whole has this particular excel¬ 
lence, that not one could be wanted without injuring the unity 

I and beauty of the design. The drama of the tale is also man¬ 
aged with equal skill and effect. There are no extravagant 
incidents, and no forced or improbable situations ; one event 
rises out of another in the same easy and natural manner as 
flows the language of the narration; the interest never flags, 







4 


CHARACTERISTICS OF GOLDSMITH'S WRITINGS. 


and is kept up to the last by the expedient of concealing the 
real character of Burchell. But it is the moral of the work 
which entitles the author to the praise of super-eminent merit 
in this species of writing. No writer has arrived more success¬ 
fully at the great ends of a moralist. By the finest examples, 
he inculcates the practice of benevolence, patience in suffering, 
and reliance on the providence of God. 

As a writer of prose, Dr. Anderson in his “ British Poets ” 
says, “ Goldsmith must be allowed to have rivalled and even 
exceeded Dr. Johnson and his imitator Dr. Hawksworth, the 
most celebrated professional prose writer of his time. His 
prose may be regarded as the model of perfection, and the 
standard of our language ; to equal which the efforts of most 
will be vain, and, to exceed it, every expectation folly.” 

Johnson, according to Boswell, said of his friend, “ whether 
we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as a historian, he 
stands in the first class. He has the art of saying everything 
he has to say in a pleasing manner.” In his works the Doctor 
has pronounced him to be, “ A man of such variety of powers, 
and such facility of performance, that he always seemed to do 
best that which he was doing; a man who had the art of being 
minute without tediousness, and general without confusion; 
whose language was copious without exuberance, exact with¬ 
out constraint, and easy without weakness.”—“ He was,” said 
Johnson emphatically, on other occasion, a very great man. 
Every year he lived he would have deserved Westminster 
Abbey the more ! ” 

Sir Walter Scott has added his tribute to the throng. “The 
wreath of Goldsmith,” he says, “ is unsullied. He wrote to 
exalt virtue and expose vice ; and he accomplished his task in 
a manner which raises him to the highest rank among British 
authors. We close his volume [The Vicar of Wakefield] with 
a sigh that such an author should have been so prematurely 
removed from the sphere of literature which he so highly 
adorned.” 

As a poet, all that he has written has been pronounced 
good by Lord Byron, while in the passage which contains this 
judgment, his Lordship says that not one-half is good of the 
HSneid, of Milton or of Dryden. Campbell, the author of the 
“ Pleasures of Hope,” says that “ Goldsmith’s poetry presents 
a distinct and unbroken view of poetical delightfulness. His 
descriptions and sentiments have the purest zest of nature. 
He is refined without false delicacy, and correct without insi¬ 
pidity. * * * * He unbends from graver strains of reflec- 


CHARACTERISTICS OF GOLDSMITH'S WRITINGS. 5 

tion to tenderness, and even to playfulness, with an ease and 
grace almost exclusively his own ; and connects extensive views 
of the happiness and interest of society with pictures of life that 
touch the heart by their familiarity.” 

To these ample praises it is unnecessary to make any 
addition. It may however be interesting to the reader to be 
informed that, both in his poetry and prose, Goldsmith usually 
drew from nature, not only in the common acceptation of the 
phrase, but literally and in fact. 
































* -» 




























CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Pago. 

The description of the family #f Wakefield, in which a kindred 
likeness prevails, as well of minds as of persons. II 

CHAPTER II. 

Family misfortunes.—The loss of fortune only serves to in¬ 
crease the pride of the worthy. 14 

CHAPTER III. 

A migration.—The fortunate circumstances of our lives are 

generally found at last to be of our own procuring. ly 

CHAPTER IV. 

A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, 

which depends not on circumstances but constitution.... xt 

CHAPTER V. 

A new and great acquaintance introduced.—What we place 
most hopes upon, generally proves most fatal. 

CHAPTER VI. 

The happiness of a country fireside. •*£ 

CHAPTER VII. 

A town-wit described—The dullest fellows may learn to be 

comical for a night or two... 30 

CHAPTER VIII. 


Ao amour which promises little good fortune, yet may be pro¬ 
ductive of much., 34 












* 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Pag* 

Two ladies of great distinction introduced—Superior finery 

ever seems to confer superior breeding... 39 

CHAPTER X. 

The family endeavors to cope with their betters.—The miseries 
of the poor when they attempt to appear above their cir¬ 
cumstances.. . 4 2 

CHAPTER XI. 

The family still resolve to hold up their heads. 45 

CHAPTER XII. 

Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield— 

Mortifications are often more painful than real calamities 49 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Mr. Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the confi¬ 
dence to give disagreeable advice. 53 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming calami¬ 
ties may be real blessings. 56 

CHAPTER XV. 

All Mr. Burchell’s villany at once detected.—The folly of being 
over-wise. 60 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The family use art, which is opposed with still greater. 64 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Scarcely any virtue found to resist the power of long and 

pleasing temptation.... 68 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue. 74 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The description of a person discontented with the present 
government and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties.. 78 











CONTENTS. 


9 


CHAPTER XX. 

Page. 

The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty, 
but losing contentment. 84 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The short continuance of friendship amongst the vicious, 

which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction. 95 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom. 101 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable.... 104 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Fresh calamities. 108 

CHAPTER XXV. 

No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of 
comfort attending it. ill 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A reformation in the jail.—To make laws complete, they 
should reward as well as punish. 115 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

The same subject continued. 119 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than of 
virtue in this life; temporal evils or felicities being re¬ 
garded by Heaven as things merely in themselves trifling, 
and unworthy its care in the distribution. 122 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard 
to the happy and the miserable here below.—That from 
the nature of pleasure and pain, the wretched must be re¬ 
paid the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter.. 130 












10 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER XXX. 


pAca. 


Happier prospects begin to appear.—Let us be inflexible, and 
fortune will at last change in our favor. 133 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest.... 139 
CHAPTER XXXII. 

The Conclusion.... ••• • 150 




VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER I. 

The description of the family of Wakefield, in which a kindred likeness prevails, as 
well of minds as of persons. 

I was ever of opinion, that the honest man who married 
and brought up a large family, did more service than he who 
continued single and only talked of a population. From this 
motive, I had scarcely taken orders a year, before I began to 
think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife, as she did 
her wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but for such qual¬ 
ities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good- 
natured notable woman ; and as for breeding, there were few 
country ladies who could show more. She could read any 
English book without much spelling ; but for pickling, preserv¬ 
ing and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also 
upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping; though I 
could never find that he grew richer with all her contrivances. 

However we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness 
increased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that 
could make us angry with the world or each other. We had 
an elegant house situated in a fine country and a good neigh¬ 
borhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements, 
in visiting our rich neighbors, and relieving such as were poor. 
We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all 
our adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations 
from the blue bed to the brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or 
stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had 
great reputation ; and I profess with the veracity of a historian, 
that I never knew one of them to find fault with it. Our cousins 
too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, 
without any help from the herald’s office, and came very fre¬ 
quently to see us. Some of them did us no great honor by these 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


12 

claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the 
halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted, 
that as they were the same flesh and blood , they should sit with 
us at the same table. So that if we had not very rich, we gene¬ 
rally had very happy friends about us , for this remark will hold 
good through life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased 
he ever is with being treated : and as some men gaze with ad¬ 
miration at the colors of a tulip, or the wings of a butterfly, so 
I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. However,- 
when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very 
bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid 
of, upon his leaving my house I ever took care to lend him a 
riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small 
value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never 
came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of 
such as we did not like ; but never was the family of Wake¬ 
field known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent out of 
doors. 

Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, 
not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Provi¬ 
dence sends to enhance the value of its favors. My orchard 
was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife’s custards plun¬ 
dered by the cats or the children. The ’Squire would some¬ 
times fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or 
his lady return my wife’s civilities at church with a mutilated 
courtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such 
accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder 
how they vexed us. 

- My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were edu¬ 
cated without softness, so they were at once well formed and 
healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful 
and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, 
which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could 
not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who 
in Henry Second’s progress through Germany, while other 
courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two chil¬ 
dren, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable 
offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, 
I considered them as a very valuable present made to my 
country, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our 
eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten 
thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call 
after her aunt Grissel; but my wife, who during her pregnancy 
bad been reading romances, insisted upon her being called 


VICAR OF WAUFFIFID. 


*3 

Olivia. In less than another year we had another daugh- 
ter, and now I was determined that Grissel should be her 
name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, 
the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia ; so that we 
had two romantic names in the family ; but I solemnly protest 
I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval 
of twelve years we had two sons more. 

It would be fruitless to deny exultations when I saw my 
little ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my 
wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would 
say, M Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the 
finest children in the whole country ;”—“ Ay, neighbor,” she 
would answer, “ they are as heaven made, handsome enough if 
they be good enough ; for handsome is that handsome does.” 
And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, 
to conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere out¬ 
side is so very trifling a circumstance with me, that I should 
scarcely have remembered to mention it, had it not been a 
general topic of conversation in the country. Olivia, now about 
eighteen, had that luxuriance of beauty with which painters 
generally drew Hebe; open, sprightly, and commanding. 
Sophia’s features were not so striking at first, but often did 
more certain execution ; for they were soft, modest and allur¬ 
ing. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts 
successfully repeated. 

The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn 
of her features, at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia 
wished for many lovers, Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often 
affected from too great a desire to please. Sophia even re¬ 
pressed excellence from her fears to offend. The one enter¬ 
tained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her 
sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never car¬ 
ried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange 
characters, for a whole day together. A suit of mourning has 
transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribbons 
has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My 
eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for 
one of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom 
I designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous educa¬ 
tion at home. But it is needless to attempt describing the par¬ 
ticular characters of young people that had seen but very little 
of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all, 
and properly speaking, they had but one character, that of be* 
ing all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 




VICAR OF WAKEFIELD., 


CHAPTER II. 


Family misfortunes.—The loss of fortune only serves to increase the pride of the 

worthy. 


The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed 
to my wife’s management; as to the spiritual, I took them en¬ 
tirely under my own direction. The profits of my living, which 
amounted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the 
orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese : for having a 
fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities, and felt a 
secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set a 
resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with 
every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to temper¬ 
ance, and the bachelors to matrimony, so that in a few years it 
was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at 
Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, 
and alehouses wanting customers. 

Matrimony was always one of my favorite topics, and I 
wrote several sermons to prove its happiness; but there was a 
peculiar tenet which I made a point of supporting ; for I main¬ 
tained with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the 
church of England, after the death of his first wife to take a 
second ; or to express it in one word, I valued myself on being 
a strict monogamist. 

I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which 
so many laborious volumes have been written. I published 
some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold 
I have the consolation of thinking were read only by the happy 
few. Some of my friends call this my weak side ; but alas! 
they had not like me made it the subject of long contemplation. 
The more I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. 
I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles : 
as he had engraven upon his wife’s tomb that she was the only wife 
of William Whiston; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, 
though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, 
and obedience till death; and having got it copied fair, with 
an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where 
it answered several very useful purposes. In admonishing my 
wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her, it inspired her 


VICAR OF IVAKEFIELD. 


IS 

with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of her 
end. *. 

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often rec¬ 
ommended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, 
fixed his affections upon the daughter of a neighboring clergy* 
man, who was a dignitary in the church, and in circumstances 
to give her a large fortune. But fortune was her smallest ac¬ 
complishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all 
(except my two daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, 
health and innocence, were still heightened by a complexion so 
transparent, and such a happy sensibility of look, as even age 
could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew I 
could make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was 
not averse to the match: so both families lived together in all 
that harmony which generally precedes an expected alliance. 
Being convinced by experience that the days of courtship are 
the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen 
the period ; and the various amusements which the young peo¬ 
ple every day shared in each other’s company seemed to in¬ 
crease their passion. We were generally awaked in the morn¬ 
ing by music, and on fine days rode a hunting. The hours be¬ 
tween breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and 
study : they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves 
in the glass, which even philosophers might own often pre¬ 
sented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took 
the lead ; for as she always insisted on carving everything her¬ 
self, it being her mother’s way, she gave us upon these occa¬ 
sions the history of every dish. When we had dined, to pre¬ 
vent the ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be 
removed ; and sometimes, with the music-master’s assistance, 
the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, 
drinking tea, country dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of 
the day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner 
of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I 
sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor can I here pass over 
an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we played 
together; I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw 
deuce ace five times running. 

Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it 
was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the 
young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the 
preparations for the wedding, I need not describe the busy 
importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters : in 
fact, my attention was fixed on another object, the completing 


VICAR OP IVAKPPlPLD. 


16 

a tract which I intended shortly to publish in defence of my 
favorite principle. As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, 
both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of my 
heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made 
no doubt of receiving.his approbation ; but not till too late I 
discovered that he was most violently attached to the contrary 
opinion, and with good reason ; for he was at that time actually 
courting a fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a 
dispute attended with some acrimony, which threatened to inter¬ 
rupt our intended alliance : but the day before that appointed 
for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large. 

It was managed with proper spirit on both sides : he as¬ 
serted that I was heterodox, I retorted the charge ; he replied 
and I rejoined. In the meantime, while the controversy was 
hottest, I was called out by one of my relations, who with a face 
of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my 
son’s wedding was over. “ How ! ” cried I, “ relinquish the 
cause of truth, and let him be a husband, already driven to the 
very verge of absurdity. You might as well advise me to give 
up my fortune-as my argument.” “Your fortune,” returned 
my friend, “ I am now sorry to inform you is almost nothing. 
The merchant in town, in whose hands your money was lodged, 
has gone off to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought 
not to have left a shilling in the pound. 1 was unwilling to 
shock you or the family with the account qntil after the wed¬ 
ding : but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the 
argument; for, I suppose your own prudence will enforce the 
necessity of dissembling, at least till your son has the young 
lady’s fortune secure.” “ Well,” returned I, “ if what you tell 
me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a 
rascal, or induce me to disavow my principles. I’ll go this mo¬ 
ment and inform the company of my circumstances : and as for 
the argument, I even here retract my former concessions in the 
old gentleman’s favor, nor will I allow him now to be a hus¬ 
band in any sense of the expression.” 

It would be endless to describe the different sentiments of 
both families when I divulged the news of our misfortune: but 
what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to en¬ 
dure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to 
break off the match, was by this blow soon determined : one 
virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence, too often the 
only one that is left at seventy-two. 


ftTfCAR Of [VAKEflELD. 


r r 


*7 


CHAPTER III. 

A Migration.—The fortunate circumstances of our lives are generally found at last to 
be of our own procuring. 


The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our 
misfortunes might be malicious or premature ; but a letter from 
my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every par¬ 
ticular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been 
trifling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were 
to be humble without an education to render them callous to 
contempt. 

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain 
their affliction, for premature consolation is but the remem¬ 
brance of sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts were em¬ 
ployed on some future means of supporting them ; and at last a 
small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a distant 
neighborhood, where 1 could still enjoy my principles without 
molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed, having deter¬ 
mined to increase my salary by managing a little farm. 

Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get 
together the wrecks of my fortune; and, all debts collected and 
paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four hundred 
remaining. My chief attention, therefore, was now to bring 
down the pride of my family to their circumstances ; for I well 
knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. “ You can¬ 
not be ignorant, my children,” cried I, “ that no prudence of 
ours could have prevented our late misfortune ; but prudence 
may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my 
fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situa¬ 
tion. Let us then, without repining, give up those splendors 
with which numbers are wretched, and seek in humbler circum¬ 
stances that peace with which all may be happy, The poor live 
pleasantly without our help, why then should not we learn to 
live without theirs ? No, my children, let us from this moment 
give up all pretensions to gentility ; we have still enough left for 
happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the 
deficiencies of fortune.” 

A?my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send 
him to town, were his abilities might contribute to our support 
and his own. The separation of friends and families is, per- 


Vicar op wakmfiei.D. 


iS 

haps, one of the most distressful circumstances attendant oft 
penury. The day soon arrived on which we were to disperse 
for the first time. My son, after taking leave of his mother 
and the rest, who mingled their tears and their kisses, came to 
ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and 
which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now 
to bestow. “ You are going, my boy,” cried I, “ to London on 
foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there 
before you. Take from me the same horse that was given him 
by the good Bishop Jewel, this staff, and this book too, it will 
be your comfort on the way : these two lines in it are worth a 
million, 1 1 have been young, and now am old ; yet never saw 
I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread/ 
Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy; 
whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee once a year; still keep 
a good heart, and farewell.” As he was possessed of integrity 
and honor, I was under no apprehensions from throwing him 
naked into the amphitheatre of life; for I knew he would act a 
good part, whether vanquished or victorious. 

His departure only prepared the way for our own, which 
arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighborhood 
in which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity, was not 
without a tear which scarcely fortitude itself could suppress. 
Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family that had hitherto 
never been above ten from home, filled us with apprehension ; 
and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, con¬ 
tributed to increase it. The first day’s journey brought us in 
safety within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up 
for the N night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When 
we were shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual 
way, to let us have his company, with which he complied, as 
what he drank would increase the bill next morning. He 
knew, however, the whole neighborhood to which I was re¬ 
moving, particularly ’Squire Thornhill, who was to be my 
landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. This 
gentleman he described as one who desired to know little more 
of the world than its pleasures, being particularly remarkable 
for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no virtue 
was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarcely a 
farmer’s daughter within ten miles round, but what had found 
him successful and faithless. Though this account gave me 
some pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, 
whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an 
approaching triumph; nor was my wife less pleased and con- 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


*9 

fident of their allurements and virtue. While our thoughts 
were thus employed the hostess entered the room to inform her 
husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days 
in the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his 
reckoning. “ Want money ! ” replied the host, “ that must be 
impossible, for it was no later than yesterday he paid three 
guineas to our beadle to spare an old "broken soldier that was 
to be whipped through the town for dog-stealing.” The hos¬ 
tess, however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was pre¬ 
paring to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied 
one way or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce 
me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With 
this he complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be 
about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced. His 
person was well formed, and his face marked with the lines of 
thinking. 

He had something short and dry in his address, and seemed 
not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the land¬ 
lord’s leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern 
to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and 
offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. “ I take 
it with all my heart, sir,” replied he, “ and am glad that a late 
oversight, in giving what money I had about me, has shown me 
that there are still some men like you. I must however, pre¬ 
viously entreat being informed of the name and residence of 
my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as possible.” In 
this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name and 
late misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove. 
“ This,” cried he, “ happens still more luckily than I had hoped 
for, as I am going the same way myself, and having been de¬ 
tained here two days by the floods, which I hope to-morrow 
will be found passable.” I testified the pleasure I should have 
in his company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, 
he was prevailed upon to stay to supper. The stranger’s con¬ 
versation, which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced 
me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was now high time 
to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the fol¬ 
lowing day. 

The next morning we all set forward together: my family 
on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new companion, walked 
along the foot-path by the road-side, observing with a smile, 
that as we were ill mounted, he would be too generous to at¬ 
tempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, 
we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. 


20 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues 
of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to 
understand perfectly. But what surprised me most was that 
though he was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions 
with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He 
now and then also informed me to whom the different seats 
belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road. “That,” 
cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at 
some distance, “ belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman 
who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will 
of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman who, content 
with a little himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and 
chiefly resides in town.” “ What! ” cried I, “ is my young 
landlord then the nephew of a man, whose virtues, generosity, 
and singularities are so universally known ? I have heard Sir 
William Thornhill represented as one of the most generous yet 
whimsical men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate benevo¬ 
lence.” “ Something, perhaps, too much so,” replied Mr. Bur¬ 
chell, “at least he carried benevolence to an excess when 
young; for his passions were then strong, and as they were all 
upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. 
He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and 
scholar; was soon distinguished in the army, and had some 
reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows 
the ambitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from flat¬ 
tery. He was surrounded with crowds, who showed him only 
one side of their character : so that he began to lose a regard 
for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all 
mankind ; for fortune prevented him from knowing that there 
were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder, in which the 
whole body is so exquisitely sensible that the slightest touch 
gives pain : what some have thus suffered in their persons, this 
gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether 
real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul labored 
under a sickly sensibility to the miseries of others. Thus dis¬ 
posed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found numbers 
disposed to solicit; his profusions began to impair his fortune, 
but not his good-nature ; that, indeed, was seen to increase as 
the other seemed to decay : he grew improvident as he grew 
poor; and though he talked like a man of sense, his actions 
were those of a fool. Still, however being surrounded with 
importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that 
was made him, instead of money he gave promises. They were 
&11 he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough to give 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


21 


any man pain by a denial. By this he drew around him crowds 
of dependents, whom he was sure to disappoint, yet he wished 
to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him with 
merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he be¬ 
came contemptible to others, he became despicable to him¬ 
self. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and that 
support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the ap¬ 
plause of his heart, which he had never learned to rever¬ 
ence. The world now began to wear a different aspect ; the 
flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approba¬ 
tion. Approbation soon took the more friendly form of ad¬ 
vice, and advice, when rejected, produced their reproaches. 
He now therefore found, that such friends as benefits had 
gathered round him, were little estimable : he now found that 
a man’s own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. 
I now found, that—that—I forget what I was going to observe ; 
in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a 
plan of restoring his fallen fortune. For this purpose, in his 
own whimsical manner, he travelled through Europe on foot, 
and now, though he has scarcely attained the age of thirty, his 
circumstances are more affluent than ever. At present, his 
bounties are more rational and moderate than before; but still 
he preserves the character of a humorist, and finds most pleas¬ 
ure in eccentric virtues.” 

My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell’s ac¬ 
count, that I scarcely looked forward as we went along, till we 
were alarmed by the cries of my family, when turning, I per¬ 
ceived my youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, 
thrown from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She 
had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in 
time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent 
to permit my attempting her rescue : she must have certainly 
perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, in¬ 
stantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, 
brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the 
current a little further up, the rest of the family got safely over, 
where we had an opportunity of joining our acknowledgments 
to her’s. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined than 
described : she thanked her deliverer more with looks than 
words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to 
receive assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the 
pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, 
after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined to¬ 
gether, as Mr. Burchell was going to a different part of the 


22 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


country, he took leave ; and we pursued our journey ; my wife 
observing as he went, that she liked him extremely, and pro¬ 
testing, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match 
into such a family as ours, she knew no man she would sooner 
fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty 
strain : but I never was much displeased with those harmless 
delusions that tend to make us more happy. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A. proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, which depends not on 
circumstances but constitution. 


The place of our retreat was in a little neighborhood, con¬ 
sisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal 
strangers to opulence and poverty. As they hatl almost all the 
conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited 
towns or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the polite, 
they still retained the primeval simplicity of manners : and 
frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was a vir¬ 
tue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labor; but 
observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They 
kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine 
morning, ate pancakes on Shrove-tide, showed their wit on the 
first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. 
Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came 
out to meet their minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and 
preceded by pipe and tabor. A feast also was provided for our 
reception, at which we sat cheerfully down : and what the con¬ 
versation wanted in wit was made up in laughter. 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping 
hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prat¬ 
tling river before ; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. 
My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, 
having given a hundred pounds for my predecessor’s good-will. 
Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures ; the 
elms and hedge-rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My 
house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, 
which gave it an air of great snugness ; the walls on the inside 
were nicely white-washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn 
them with pictures of their own designing. Though the same 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


n 

room served us for parlor and kitchen, that only made it the 
warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the 
dishes, plates, and coppers being well scoured, and all disposed 
in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, 
and did not want richer furniture. There were three other 
apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two 
daughters, within our own,' and the third, with two beds, for 
the rest of the children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the 
following manner : by sunrise we all assembled in our common 
apartment; the fire being previously kindled by the servant. 
After we had saluted each other with proper ceremony, for I 
always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good¬ 
breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we 
all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. 
This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our 
usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed 
themselves in providing breakfast, which was always ready at a 
certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour 
for dinner; which time was taken up in innocent mirth between 
my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between 
my son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors 
after it was gone down, but returned home to the expectant 
family j where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire, 
were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests ; 
sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbor, and 
often the blind piper would pay us a visit, and taste our goose¬ 
berry-wine ; for the making of which we had lost neither the 
receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had several 
ways of being good company; while one played, the other 
■would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong’s last good 
night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was con¬ 
cluded in the manner we began the morning, my youngest boys 
being appointed to read the lessons of the day; and he that 
read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have a halfpenny on 
Sunday to put in the poor’s box. 

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which 
all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever 
I fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of 
my daughters ; yet I found them still secretly attached to all 
their former finery : they still loved laces, ribbons, bugles, and 
catgut; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson pedu- 
asoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. 


24 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


The first Sunday in particular their behavior served to mor¬ 
tify me : I had desired my girls the preceding night to be 
dressed early the next day; for I always loved to be at church 
a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punc¬ 
tually obeyed my directions; but when we were to assemble in 
the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters 
dressed out in all their former splendor: their hair plastered 
up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains 
bundled up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I 
could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my 
wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, 
therefore, my only resource was to order my son, with an im¬ 
portant air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the 
command ; but I repeated it with more solemnity than before 
—“ Surely, my dear, you jest,” cried my wife, “ we can walk it 
perfectly well: we want no coach to carry us now.” “ You mis¬ 
take, child,” returned I, “ we do want a coach ; for if we walk 
to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot 
after us.” “Indeed,” replied my wife, “ I always imagined that 
my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome 
about him.” “ You may be as neat as you please,” interrupted 
I, “ and I shall love you the better for it; but all this is not 
neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings, and 
patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives of all our 
neighbors. No, my children,” continued I, more gravely 
“ those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut ; 
for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of 
decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shedding 
is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate 
calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world might be 
clothed from the trimmings of the vain.” 

This remonstrance had the proper effect ; they went with 
great composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and 
the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, 
at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into 
Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones, and, 
what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved 
by this curtailing. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


27 


CHAPTER V. 

A new and great acquaintance introduced.—What we place most hopes upon, gen¬ 
erally proves most fatal. 

At a small distance from the house, my predecessor had 
made a seat, overshadowed by a hedge of hawthorn and honey¬ 
suckle. Here, when the weather was fine and our labor soon 
finished, we usually sat together, to enjoy an extensive land¬ 
scape in the calm of the evening. Here too we drank tea 
which was now become an occasional banquet; and as we had 
it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for it being 
made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these 
occasions our two little ones always read to us, and they were 
regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a vari¬ 
ety to our amusement, the girls sang to the guitar; and while 
they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll 
down the sloping field, that was embellished with blue-bells 
and centaury, talk of our children with rapture, and enjoy the 
breeze that wafted both health and harmony. 

In this manner we began to find that every situation in life 
might bring its own peculiar pleasures : every morning awakened 
us to a repetition of toil; but the evening repaid it with vacant 
hilarity. 

It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I 
kept such as intervals of relaxation from labor, that I had 
drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our 
young musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus 
engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty 
paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting seemed pressed 
by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the poor 
animal’s distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen 
come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the 
very path it had taken. I was instantly for returning with my 
family ; but either curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden 
motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The hunts¬ 
man, who rode foremost, passed us with great swiftness, fol¬ 
lowed by four or five persons more who seemed in equal haste. 
At last a young gentleman of a more genteel appearance than 
the rest came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of 
pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a 


24 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


servant who attended, approached us with a careless superior 
air. He seemed to want no introduction, but was going to 
salute my daughters, as one certain of a kind reception; but 
they had early learned the lesson of looking presumption out 
of countenance. Upon which he let us know his name was 
Thornhill, and that he was owner of the estate that lay for 
some extent around us. He again therefore offered to salute 
the female part of the family, and such was the power of for-, 
tune and fine clothes, that he found no second repulse. As 
his address, though confident, was easy, we soon became more 
familiar; and perceiving musical instuments lying near, he 
begged to be favored with a song. As I did not approve of such 
disproportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters 
in order to prevent their compliance ; but my hint was coun¬ 
teracted by one from their mother; so that, with a cheerful 
air, they gave us a favorite song of Dryden’s. Mr. Thornhill 
seemed highly delighted with their performance and choice, 
and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very in¬ 
differently ; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former 
applause with interest, and assured him that his tones were 
louder than even those of her master. At this compliment he 
bowed, which she returned with a curtsey. He praised her 
taste, and she commended his understanding : an age could not 
have made them better acquainted, while the fond mother, too, 
equally happy, insisted upon her landlord stepping in, and 
tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family seemed 
earnest to please him; my girls attempted to entertain him 
with topics they thought most modern, while Moses, on the 
contrary, gave him a question or two from the ancients, for 
which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at: my little 
ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to the.stranger. 
All my endeavors could scarcely keep their dirty fingers from 
handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and lifting up 
the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was there. At the 
approach of evening he took leave ; but not till he had re¬ 
quested permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our 
landlord, we most readily agreed to. 

As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the 
conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that it was a most 
fortunate hit; for that she had known even stranger things at 
last brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which 
we might hold up our heads with the best of them ; and con¬ 
cluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two 
Miss Wrinkles should marry great fortunes, and her children 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


27 

get none. As this last argument was directed to me, I pro¬ 
tested I could see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr. Sim- 
kins got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we 
sat down with a blank. “ I protest, Charles,” cried my wife, 

“ this is the way you always damp my girls and me when we are 
in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our 
new visitor ? Don’t you think he seemed to be good-natured ? ” 

“ Immensely so indeed, mamma,” replied she, “I think he has 
a great deal to say upon everything, and is never at a loss ; 
and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say.’’ 

“ Yes,” cried Olivia, “ he is well enough for a man, but for my 
part, I don’t much like him, he is so extremely impudent and 
familiar; but on the guitar he is shocking.” These two last 
speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that 
Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly admired 
him. “ Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children,” 
cried I, “ to confess the truth he has not prepossessed me in , 
his favor. Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in dis¬ 
gust ; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he 
seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. Let us 
keep to companions of our own rank. There is no character 
more contemptible than a man that is a fortune-hunter ; and I 
can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should not be 
contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if 
his views be honorable ; but if they be otherwise ! I should 
shudder to think of that. It is true I have no apprehensions 
from the conduct of my children, but I think there are some 
from his character.” I would have proceeded, but for the in¬ 
terruption of a servant from the ’Squire, who with his compli¬ 
ments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us 
some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more power¬ 
fully in his favor, than anything I had to say could obviate. I 
therefore continued silent, satisfied with just having pointed 
out clanger, and leaving it to their own discretion to avoid it. 
That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth 
the sentinel. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


23 


CHAPTER VI. 

The Happiness of a Country Fireside. 


As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of 
warmth, in order to accommodate matters, it was universally 
agreed, that we should have a part of the venison for supper ; 
and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. “ I am sorry,” 
cried I, “ that we have no neighbor or stranger to take a part 
in this good cheer : feasts of this kind acquire a double relish 
from hospitality.” “ Bless me,” cried my wife, “ here comes 
our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that 
run you down fairly in the argument.” “ Confute me in argu¬ 
ment, child ! ” cried I. “ You mistake there, my dear I believe 
there are abilities at making a goose-pie, and I beg you’ll leave 
argument’to me.” As I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the 
house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him 
heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a 
chair. 

I was pleased with the poor man’s friendship for two rea¬ 
sons ; because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him 
to be friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our 
neighborhood by the character of the poor gentleman that 
would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet 
thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense ; but 
in general he was fondest of the company of children, whom 
he used to call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, 
for singing them ballads, and telling them stories; and seldom 
went out without something in his pockets for them ; a piece 
of gingerbread, or a halfpenny wdiistle. He generally came 
for a few days into our neighborhood once a year, and lived 
upon the neighbors’ hospitality. He sat down to supper 
among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry- 
wine. The tale went round ; he sang us old songs, and 
gave the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, wdth the 
history of Patient Grissel, the adventures of Catskin, and then 
Fair Rosamond’s Bower. Our cock, which always crew at 
eleven, now told us it was time for repose; but an unforeseen 
difficulty started about lodging the stranger—all our beds were 
already taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next 
alehouse, In this dilemma little Dick offered him his part of 


VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 


29 

the bed, if his brother Moses would let him lie with him; 
“And I,” cried Bill, “will give Mr. Burchell my part, if my 
sisters will take me to theirs.” “ Well done, my good chil¬ 
dren,” cried I, “hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. 
The beast retires to its shelter, and the bird flies to its nest; 
but helpless man can only find refuge from his fellow-creature. 
The greatest stranger in this world, was he that came to save 
it. He never had a house, as if willing to see what hospitality 
was left remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear,” cried I 
to my wife, “give those boys a lump of sugar each, and let 
Dick’s be the largest, because he spoke first.” 

In the morning early I called out my whole family to help 
at saving an after-growth of hay, and our guest offering his as¬ 
sistance, he was accepted amongst the number. Our labors 
went on lightly, we turned the swath to the wind. I went fore¬ 
most, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not 
avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in as¬ 
sisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When he 
had finished his own, he would join in her’s, and enter into a 
close conversation: but I had too good an opinion of Sophia’s 
understanding, and was too well convinced of her ambition, 
to be under any uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. 
When we were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited 
as on the night before; but he refused, as he was to lie that 
night at a neighbor’s to whose child he was carrying a whistle. 
When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late 
unfortunate guest. 

“ What a strong instance,” said I, “ is that poor man of 
the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance. He 
by no means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his 
former folly. Poor forlorn creature, where are now the revel¬ 
lers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command ! 
Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown rich by 
his extravagance. They once praised him, and now they ap¬ 
plaud the pander: their former raptures at his wit are now 
converted into sarcasms at his folly: he is poor, and perhaps 
deserves poverty; for he has neither the ambition to be inde¬ 
pendent, nor the skill to be useful. Prompted perhaps by 
some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too 
much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. “ Whatso¬ 
ever his former conduct may have been, papa, his circumstances 
should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence 
is a sufficient punishment for former folly; and I have heard 
my papa himself say, that we should never strike an unneces- 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


30 

sary blow at a victim over whom Providence holds the scourge 
of itsVesentment.” “ You are right, Sophy,” cried my son 
Moses, “ and one of the ancients finely represents so mali¬ 
cious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, 
whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stripped off by 
another. Besides, I don’t know if this poor man’s situation is 
so bad as my father would represent it. We are not to judge 
of the feelings of others by what we might feel if in their place. 
However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the 
animal itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And 
to confess a truth, this man’s mind seems fitted to his station : 
for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, 
when he conversed with you.” This was said without the 
least design; however, it excited a blush, which she strove to 
cover by an affected laugh, assuring him, that she scarcely 
took any notice of what he said to her; but that she believed 
he might once have been a very fine gentleman. The readi¬ 
ness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, and her 
blushing, were symptoms I did not internally approve; but I 
repressed my suspicions. 

As we expected our landlord next day, my wife went to 
make the venison pastry. Moses sat reading, while I taught 
the little ones : my daughter seemed equally busy with the rest; 
and I observed them for a good while cooking something over 
the fire. I at first supposed that they were assisting their 
mother; hut little Dick informed me in a whisper, that they 
were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had 
a natural antipathy to ; for I knew that instead of mending the 
complexion they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair 
by slow degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it 
wanted mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole 
composition, and it was too late to begin another. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A Town-wit described—The dullest fellows may learn to be comical for a night or two. 

When the morning arrived on which we were to entertain 
our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions 
were exhausted to make an appearance. It may also be con¬ 
jectured that mv wife and daughters expanded their gayest 



PICA ft OF WAKEFIELD. 


3 * 

plumage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a couple 
of his friends, his chaplain and feeder. The servants, who 
were numerous, he politely ordered to the next alehouse, but 
my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining 
them all; for which by the by, our family was pinched for three 
weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us the day before, 
that he was making some proposals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, 
my son George’s former mistress, this a good deal damped the 
heartiness of his reception ; but accident in some measure re¬ 
lieved our embarrassment; for one of the company happening 
to mention her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an oath, 
that he never knew anything more absurd than calling such a 
fright a beauty: “For strike me ugly,” continued he, “if I 
should not find as much pleasure in choosing my mistress by 
the information of a lamp under the clock at St. Dunstan’s.” 
At this he laughed, and so did we :—the jests of the rich are 
ever successful. Olivia, too, could not avoid whispering loud 
enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humor. 

After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church ; for 
this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church was 
the only mistress of his affections. “ Come, tell us honestly, 
Frank,” said the ’Squire, with his usual archness, “ suppose the 
Church, your present mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves, on one 
hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other, 
which would you be for ? ” “ For both, to be sure,” cried the 

chaplain. “ Right, Frank,” cried the ’Squire, “ for may this 
glass suffocate me, but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in 
the creation. For what are tithes and tricks but an imposition, 
all a confounded imposture, and I can prove it.” “ I wish you 
would,” cried my son Moses; “ and I think,” continued he, 
“ that I should be able to answer you.” “Very well, sir,” cried 
the ’Squire, who immediately smoked him, and winking on the 
rest of the company to prepare us for the sport, “if you are 
for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to accept 
the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it ana¬ 
logically or dialogfcally ? ” “ I am for managing it rationally,” 

cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. 
“ Good again,” cried the ’Squire, “ and firstly, of the first: I 
hope you’ll not deny, that whatever is, is. If you don’t grant 
me that, I can go no farther.” “ Why,” returned Moses, “ I 
think I may grant that, and make the best of it.” “ I hope 
too,” returned the other, “ you’ll grant that a part is less than 
the whole.” “ I grant that too,” cried Moses, “ it is but just 
and reasonable.” “ I hope,” cried the ’Squire, “ you’ll not deny 
that the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones/' 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


32 

“ Nothing can be plainer,” returned t’other, and looked round 
with his usual importance. “ Very well,” cried the ’Squire, 
speaking very quick, the premises being thus settled, I proceed 
to observe, that the concatenation of self-existence, proceeding 
in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematic 
dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of 
spirituality may be referred to the second predicable.” “ Hold, 
hold,” cried the other, “ I deny that: Do you think I can thus 
tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines ? ” “ What! ” re¬ 

plied the ’Squire, as if in a passion, “ not submit,! Answer me 
one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right when he says, 
that relatives are related ? ” “ Undoubtedly,” replied the other. 

“ If so, then,” cried the ’Squire, “ answer me directly to what 
I propose : Whether do you judge the analytical investigation 
of the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or 
quoad minus, and give me your reasons : give me your reasons 
I say, directly.” “ I protest,” cried Moses, “ I don’t rightly 
comprehend the force of your reasoning: but if it be reduced 
to one simple proposition, I fancy that it may then have an 
answer.” “ O sir,” cried the Squire, “ I am your most humble 
servant; I find you want me to furnish you with argument and 
intellects too. No, sir, there I protest you are too hard for me.” 
This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who sat 
the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces; nor did he 
offer a single syllable more during the whole entertainment. 

But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very dif¬ 
ferent effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humor, though 
but a mere act of the memory. She thought him therefore a 
very fine gentlemen; and such as consider what powerful in¬ 
gredients a good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are in that 
character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, notwithstand¬ 
ing his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could expatiate 
upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is 
not surprising then that such talents should win the affections 
of a girl, who by education was taught to value an appearance 
in herself, and consequently to set a value upon it in another. 

Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon 
the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks 
and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but 
that she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. 
Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent rail¬ 
lery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deb¬ 
orah herself seemed to share,the glory of the day, and exulted 
in her daughter’s victory as if it were her own. “ And now, my 


FICak of Wakefield. 


33 

dear,” cried she to me, “I’ll fairly own, that, it was I that in¬ 
structed my girls to encourage our landlord’s addresses. I had 
always some ambition, and you now see that I was right; for 
who knows how this may end ? ” “ Ay, who knows that indeed ! ” 
answered I, with a groan : “ For my part, I don’t much like it; 
and I could have been better pleased with one that was poor 
and honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and in¬ 
fidelity ; for depend on’t, if he be what I suspect him, no free¬ 
thinker shall ever have a child of mine.” 

“ Sure, father,” cried Moses, “you are too severe in this 
for heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but 
for what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, 
which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of 
religion may be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that al¬ 
lowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is purely passive 
in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for his errors, than 
the governor of a city without walls for the shelter he is obliged 
to afford an invading enemy.” 

“ True, my son,” cried I; “ but if the governor invites the 
enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is always the 
case with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in 
assenting to the proofs they see ; but in being blind to many of 
the proofs that offer. So that, though our erroneous opinions 
be involuntary when formed, yet as we have been wilfully cor¬ 
rupt, or very negligent in forming them, we deserve punishment 
for our vice, or contempt for our folly.” 

My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the ar¬ 
gument ; she observed, that several very prudent men of our 
acquaintance were free-thinkers, and made very good husbands; 
and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to make 
converts of their spouses : “ And who knows, my dear,” con¬ 

tinued she, “ what Olivia may be able to do. The girl has a 
great deal to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is 
very well skilled in controversy.” 

“ Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read ? ” 
cried I “ It does not occur to me that I ever put such books 
in her hands: you certainly overrate her merit.” “ Indeed 
papa,” replied Olivia, “ she does not; I have read the disputes 
between Thwackum and Square; the controversy between 
Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, and am now employed 
in reading the controversy on Religious Courtship.” “Very 
well,” cried I, “ that’s a good girl ; I find you are perfectly 
qualified for making converts ; and so go help your mother to 
make the gooseberry pie.” 


34 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


CHAPTER VIIJ 

An amour which promises little good fortune, yet may be productive of much. 

The next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, 
though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the 
frequency of his return but I could not refuse him my com¬ 
pany and my fireside. It is true, his labor more than requited 
his entertainment: for he wrought among us with vigor, and 
either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself foremost. 
Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened 
our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, 
that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose 
from an attachment he discovered to my daughter; he would, 
in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress, and when he 
bought each of the girls a set of ribbons, hers was the finest. 
I knew not how, but he everyday seemed to become more ami¬ 
able, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the 
superior airs of wisdom. 

Our family dined in the held, and we sat, or rather reclined 
round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, 
while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten 
our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from 
opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came and pecked 
the crumbs from our hands, and every one seemed but the 
echo of tranquillity. “ I never sit thus,” says Sophia, “ but I 
think of the two lovers so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who 
were struck dead in each other’s arms. There is something so 
pathetic in the description, that I have read it a hundred times 
with new rapture.”—“ In my opinion,” cried my son, “ the 
finest strokes in that description are much below those in the 
Acis and Galatea of Ovid The Roman poet understands the 
use of contrast better : and upon that figure artfully managed, 
all strength in the pathetic depends.”—“ It is remarkable,” 
cried Mr Burchell, “ that both the poets you mention have 
equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their re¬ 
spective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. 
Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their 
defects and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of 
Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant 
am ages, without plot or connexion; a string of epithets ttaC 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


3S 

improve the sound, without carrying on the sense. But per- 
haps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you’ll think it 
just that 1 should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and 
indeed I have made this remark only to have an opportunity 
of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its 
other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have men¬ 
tioned.’’ 


A BALLAD. 

“Turn, gentle hermit of the dale. 

And guide my lonely way, 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

“ For here forlorn and lost I tread, 

With fainting steps and slow ; 

Where wilds immeasurably spread 
Seem length’ning as I go.” 

“ Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries, 

“ To tempt the dangerous gloom; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lore thee to thy doom. 

“ Here to the houseless child of want 
My door is open still; 

And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

“ Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate’er my cell bestows ; 

My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

“No flocks that range the valley free. 
To slaughter I condemn; 

Taught by that power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them : 

“But from the mountain’s grassy side 
A guiltless feast I bring ; 

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied. 
And water from the spring. 

“ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; 
All earth-born cares are wrong; 

Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long.” 

Soft as the dew from heaven descend*, 
His gentle accents fell: 

The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell, 


3 « 


VTCAF OF WAKEFIELD, 


Far in a wilderness obscure 
The lonely mansion lay : 

A refuge to the neighb’ring poor 
And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Required a master’s care ; 

The wicket opening with a latch 
Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest, 

The hermit trimm’d his little fire, 

\nd cheered his pensive guest: 

And spread his vegetable store, 

And gayly press’d, and smiled; 

And, skill’d in legendary lore, 

The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around in sympathetic mirth 
Its tricks the kitten tries, 

The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 

The crackling faggot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger’s woe ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spied, 

With answering care oppress’d: 

“ And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, 
“ The sorrows of thy breast ? 

“ From better habitations spurn’d, 
Reluctant dost thou rove ? 

Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, 

Or unregarded love ? 

“ Alas! the joys that fortune brings, 

Are trifling, and decay ; 

And those who prize the paltry tnmgs. 
More trifling still than they. 

“ And what is friendship but a name 
A charm that lulls to sleep; 

A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
But leaves the wretch to weep ? 

u And love is still an emptier sound 
The modern fair one’s jest; 

On earth unseen, or only found 
To warm the turtle’s nest. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


37 


•For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex,” he said ; 

But while he spoke, a rising flush 
His love-lorn guest betray’d. 

Surprised he sees new beauties rise. 

Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colors o’er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 
Alternate spread alarms : 

The lovely stranger stands confest 
A maid in all her charms. 

“ And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn,” she cried; 

“ Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude 
Where heaven and you reside. 

“But let a maid thy pity share. 

Whom love has taught to stray, 

Who seeks for rest, but finds desDair 
Companion of her way. 

u My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 

And all his wealth was mark’d as mine 
He had but only me. 

“To win me from his tender arms. 
Unnumber’d suitors came; 

Who praised me for imputed charms, 
And felt, or feign’d a flame. 

“ Each hour a mercenary crowd 
Wiih richest proffers strove 

Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d. 
But never talk’d of love. 

“In humble, simplest habit clad, 

No wealth nor power had he, 

Wisdom and worth were all he had. 

But these were all to me. 

“ And when beside me in the dale, 

He card’d lays of love, 

His breath lent fragrance to the gale 
And music to the grove. 

* The blossom opening to the day, 

The dews of Heaven refined, 

Could naught of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 


33 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“ The dew, the blossom on the tree 
With charms inconstant shine ; 

Their charms were his, but woe to me I 
Their constancy was mine. 

“ For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain; 

And while his passion touch’d my heart, 

I triumph’d in his pain: 

“ Till quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride; 

And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

“ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 

And well my life shall pay; 

I’ll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

“And there forlorn, despairing, hid. 

I’ll lay me down and die ; 

*Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I.” 

“Forbid it, Heaven ! ” the Hermit cried. 

And clasp’d her to his breast; 

The wondering fair one turn’d to chide—* 

’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d. 

“ Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restored to love and thee. 

“ Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign; 

And shall we never, never part, 

My life—my all that’s mine ? 

“ No, never from this hour to part, 

We’ll live and love so true ; 

The sigh that rends thy constant heart. 

Shall break thy Edwin’s too.” 

While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an 
air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity 
was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and im¬ 
mediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to 
take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the 
^Squire’s chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so 
agreeably entertained us. So loud a report and so near, 
startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in her 
fright had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell’s arms for protec- 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


39 

tion. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having 
disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of our being so 
near. He therefore sat down by my youngest daughter, and 
sportsman-like, offered her what he had killed that morning. 
She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother 
soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, 
though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered 
her pride in a whisper, observing that Sophy had made a con¬ 
quest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the ’Squire. 
I suspected, however, with more probability, that her affections 
were placed upon a different object. The chaplain’s errand 
was to inform us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and 
refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies 
a ball by moon-light, on the grassplot before our door. “ Nor 
can I deny,” continued he, “ that I have an interest in being 
first to deliver this message, as 1 expect for my reward to be 
honored with Miss Sophy’s hand as a partner.” To this my 
girl replied, that she should have no objection if she could do 
it with honor : “ But here,” continued she, “ is a gentleman,” 
looking at Mr. Burchell, “ who has been my companion in the 
task for the day, and it is fit he should share its amusements.” 
Mr. Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions : but 
resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that 
night five miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His refusal 
appeared to me a little extraordinary; nor could I perceive 
how so sensible a girl as my youngest, could thus prefer a 
man of broken fortunes to one whose expectations were much 
greater. But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit 
in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgment of us. 
The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and 
are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual in¬ 
spection. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Two ladles of great distinction introduced—Superior finery ever seems to confer 
superior breeding. 

Mr. Burchell had scarcely taken leave, and Sophia con¬ 
sented to dance with the chaplain, when my little ones came 
running out to tell us, that the ’Squire was come with a crowd of 






4® 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


company. Upon our return, we found our landlord, with a 
couple of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, 
whom he introduced as women of very great distinction and 
fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs enough 
for the whole company ; but Mr. Thornhill immediately pro¬ 
posed that every gentleman should sit in a lady’s lap. This I 
positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of approbation 
from my wife. Moses was therefore despatched to borrow a 
couple of chairs ; and as we were in want of ladies to make up 
a set at country dances, the two gentlemen went with him in 
quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners were soon 
provided. The gentlemen returned with my neighbor Flam- 
borough’s rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots ; but an 
unlucky circumstance was not adverted to—though the Miss 
Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the par¬ 
ish, and understood the jig and round-about to perfection, yet 
they were totally unacquainted with country dances. This at 
first discomposed us : however, after a little shoving and drag¬ 
ging, they at least went merrily on. Our music consisted of 
two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright. 
Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the 
great delight of the spectators ; for the neighbors, hearing what 
was going forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved 
with so much grace and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid 
discovering the pride of her heart, by assuring me that though 
the little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen from 
herself. The ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, 
but without success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and 
frisked ; but all would not do : the gazers indeed owned that it 
was fine ; but neighbor Flamborough observed, that Miss Livy’s 
feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the dance 
had continued about an hour, the two ladies who were appre¬ 
hensive of catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of 
them, I thought, expressed her sentiments upon this occasion 
in a very coarse manner, when she observed, that, by the living 
jingo she was all of a muck of sweat . Upon our return to the 
house, we found a very elegant cold supper, which Mr. Thorn¬ 
hill had ordered to be brought with him. The conversation at 
this time was more reserved than before. The two ladies 
threw my girls quite into the shade; for they would talk of 
nothing but high life, and high-lived company; with other 
fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the 
musical glasses. ’Tis true they once or twice mortified us 
sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that appeared to me as 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


41 

the surest symptom of their distinction (though I am since in¬ 
formed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable). Their finery, 
however, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversation. 
My daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplishments 
with envy ; and what appeared amiss was ascribed to tip-top 
quality breeding, But the condescension of the ladies was still 
superior to their other accomplishments. One of them ob¬ 
served, that had Miss Olivia seen a little more of the world, it 
would greatly improve her. To which the other added, that a 
single winter in town would make her little Sophia quite an¬ 
other thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; adding that 
there was nothing she more ardently wished than to give her 
girls a single winter’s polishing. To this I could not help re¬ 
plying, that their breeding was already superior to their for¬ 
tune ; and that greater refinement would only serve to make 
their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleasures 
they had no right to possess.—“ And what pleasures,” cried Mr. 
Thornhill, “ do they not deserve to possess, who have so much 
in their power to bestow? As for my part,” continued he, 
“ my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, and pleasure, are 
my maxims ; but curse me if a settlement of half my estate 
could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it should be hers; 
and the only favor I would ask in return would be to add my¬ 
self to the benefit.” I was not such a stranger to the world as 
to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to disguise 
the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I made an effort to 
suppress my resentment. “ Sir,” cried I, “ the family which 
you now condescend to favor with your company, has been bred 
with as nice a sense of honor as you. Any attempts to injure 
that, may be attended with very dangerous consequences. 
Honor, sir, is our only possession at present, and of that last 
treasure we must be particularly careful.”—I was soon sorry 
for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the young 
gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, 
though he disapproved my suspicions. “ As to your present 
hint,” continued he, “ I protest nothing was farther from my 
heart than such a thought. No, by all that’s tempting, the 
virtue that will stand a regular siege was never to my taste ; 
for all my amours are carried by a coup-de-main .” 

The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, 
seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of freedom, 
and began a very discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue; in 
this my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon joined; and the ’Squire 
himself was at last brought to confess a sense of sorrow for his 


42 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ,. 


former excesses. We talked of the pleasures of temperance, 
and of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was 
so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond the 
usual time to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr. 
Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded if I had any 
objections to giving prayers. I joyfully embraced the pro¬ 
posal ; and in this manner the night was passed in a most 
comfortable way, till at last the company began to think of re¬ 
turning. The ladies seemed very unwilling to part with my 
daughters, for whom they had conceived a particular affection, 
and joined in a request to have the pleasure of their company 
home. The ’Squire seconded the proposal, and my wife added 
her entreaties; the girls too looked upon me as if they wished 
me to go. In this perplexity I made two or three excuses, 
which my daughters as readily removed ; so that at last I was 
obliged to give a peremptory refusal; for which we had 
nothing but sullen looks and short answers the whole day 
ensuing. 


CHAPTER X. 

The family endeavors to cope with their betters.—The miseries of the poor when 
they attempt to appear above their circumstances. 

I now began to find, that all my long and painful lectures 
upon temperance, simplicity and contentment, where entirely 
disregarded. The distinctions lately paid us by our betters 
awaked that pride which I had laid asleep but not removed. Our 
windows, again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the neck 
and face. The sun was dreaded, as an enemy to the skin 
without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion with¬ 
in. My wife, observed, that rising too early would hurt her 
daughter’s eyes, that working after dinner would redden their 
noses, and she convinced me that the hands never looked so 
white as when they did nothing. Instead, therefore, of finish¬ 
ing George’s shirts, we now had them new-modelling their old 
gauses, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss Flambor- 
oughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as mean ac¬ 
quaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life and 
high-lived company, with pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the 
musical glasses. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


43 

But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling 
gipsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny sibyl 
no sooner appeared, than my girls came running to me for a 
shilling a-piece to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth 
I was tired of being always wise, and could not help gratifying 
their request, because I love to see them happy. I gave each 
of them a shilling; though for the honor of the family it 
must be observed, that they never went without money them¬ 
selves, as my wife always generously let them have a guinea 
each, to keep in their pockets, but with strict injunctions never 
to change it. After they had been closeted up with the fortune¬ 
teller for some time, I knew by their looks, upon their return¬ 
ing, that they had been promised something great.—“ Well my 
girls, how have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune¬ 
teller given thee a pennyworth ? ”—“ I protest, papa,” says the 
girl, “ I believe she deals with somebody that’s not right; for 
she positively declared that I am to be married to a ’squire in 
less than a twelvemonth !—“ Well now, Sophy, my child,” said 
I, “ and what sort of a husband are you to have ? ” “ Sir,” 

replied she, “ I am to have a lord soon after my sister has 
married the squire.” 

“ How ! ” cried I, “ is that all your are to have for your two 
shillings ? Only a lord and a ’squire for two shillings ! You 
fools, I could have promised you a prince and a nabob for 
half the money.” 

This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very 
serious effects; we now began to think ourselves designed by 
the stars to something exalted, and already anticipated our 
future grandeur. 

It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe 
it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in 
view, are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In 
the first case, we cook the dish to our own appetite ; in the 
latter, nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the 
train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. 
We looked upon our fortunes as once more rising ; and as the 
whole parish asserted the ’squire was in love with my daughter, 
she was actually so with him : for they persuaded her into the 
passion. In this agreeable interval, my wife had the most lucky 
dreams in the world, which she took care to tell us every morn¬ 
ing with great solemnity and exactness. It was one night a 
coffin and cross-bones, the sign of on approaching wedding ; at 
another time she imagined her daughter’s pockets filled with 
farthings, a certain sign of their being shortly stuffed with gold. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


44 

The girls themselves had their omens. They felt strange kisses 
on their lips; they saw rings in the candle, purses bounced 
from the fire, and true love-knots lurked in the bottom of every 
teacup. 

Towards the end of the week we received a card from the 
town ladies; in which, with their compliments, they hoped to 
see all our family at church the Sunday following. All Satur¬ 
day morning, I could perceive, in consequence of this, my 
wife and daughters in close conference together, and now and 
then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. To 
be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal 
was preparing for appearing with splendor the next day. In 
the evening they began their operations in a very regular man¬ 
ner, and my wife undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, 
when I seemed in spirits, she began thus :—“ I fancy Charles, 
my dear, we shall have a great deal of good company at our 
church to-morrow.”—“ Perhaps we may, my dear,” returned I, 
“ though you need be under no uneasiness about that, you 
shall have a sermon whether there be or not.”—“ That is what 
I expect,” returned she ; “ but I think, my dear, we ought to 
appear th*>re as decently as possible, for who knows what may 
happen ? ” “ Your precautions,” replied I, “ are highly com¬ 

mendable. A decent behavior and appearance in church is 
what charms me. We should be devout and humble, cheerful 
and serene.” “ Yes,” cried she, “1 know that; but I mean we 
should go there in as proper a manner as possible ; not alto¬ 
gether like the scrubs about us.” “You are quite right, my 
dear,” returned I, “ and I was going to make the very same 
proposal. The proper manner of going is to go there as early 
as possible, to have time for meditation before the service 
begins.” “ Phoo, Charles,” interrupted she, “ all that is very 
true; but not what I would be at. I mean we should go there 
genteelly. You know the church is two miles off, and I protest 
I don’t like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew all 
blowzed and red with walking, and looking for all the world 
as if they had been winners at a smock-race. Now, my dear, 
my proposal is this : there are two plough horses, the colt that 
has been in our family these nine years, and his companion 
Blackberry, that has scarcely done an earthly thing for this 
month past. They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should 
not they do something as well as we ? And let me tell you, 
when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will cut a very tol¬ 
erable figure.” 

To this proposal I objected, that walking would be twenty 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


4$ 

times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Black¬ 
berry was wall-eyed, and the colt wanted a tail; that they had 
never been broke to the rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks; 
and that we had but one saddle and pillion in the whole house. 
All these objections, however, were overruled ; so that I was 
obliged to comply. The next morning I perceived them not a 
little busy in collecting such materials as might be necessary 
for the expedition; but as I found it would be a business of 
time, I walked on to the church before, and they promised 
speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading-desk 
for their arrival; but not finding them come as expected, I was 
obliged to begin, and went through the service, not without 
some uneasiness at finding them absent. This was increased 
when all was finished, and no appearance of the family. I 
therefore walked back by the horse-way, which was five miles 
round, though the foot-way was but two, and when got about 
half way home, perceived the procession marching slowly for¬ 
ward towards the church ; my son, my wife, and the two little 
ones, exalted upon one horse, and my two daughters upon the 
other. I demanded the cause of their delay; but I soon found 
by their looks they had met with a thousand misfortunes on 
the road. The horses had at first refused to move from the 
door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them forward 
for about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps 
of my wife’s pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop 
to repair them before they could proceed. After that, one of 
the horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows 
nor entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. He was just 
recovering from this dismal situation when I found them ; but 
perceiving everything safe, I own their present mortification 
did not much displease me, as it would give me many op¬ 
portunities of future triumph, and teach my daughters more 
humility. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The family still resolve to hold up their heads, 

Michaelmas eve happening on the next day, we were in¬ 
vited to burn nuts and play tricks at neighbor Flamborough’s. 
Our late mortifications had humbled us a little, or it is probable 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


4<5 

we might have rejected such an invitation with contempt: how- 
ever, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest neighbor’s 
goose and dumplings were fine, and the lamb’s wool, even in 
the opinion of my wife, who was a connoisseur , was excellent. 
It is true, his manner of telling stories was not quite so well. 
They were very long, and very dull, and all about himself, and 
we had laughed at them ten times before: however, we were 
kind enough to laugh at them once more. 

Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of 
seeing some innocent amusement going forward, and set the 
boys and girls to blind man’s buff. My wife too was persuaded 
to join in the diversion, and it gave me pleasure to think she 
was not yet too old. In the meantime, my neighbor and I 
looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dexterity 
when we were young. Hot cockles succeeded next, questions 
and commands followed that, and last of all they sat down to 
hunt the slipper. As every person may not be acquainted 
with this primeval pastime, it may be necessary to observe, 
that the company at this play plant themselves in a ring upon 
the ground, all except one, who stands in the middle, whose 
business it is to catch a shoe, which the company shove about 
under their hams from one to another, something like a weaver’s 
shuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who is 
up to face all the company at once, the great beauty of the 
play lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on 
that side least capable of making a defence. It was in this 
manner that my eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped 
about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair play, with a 
voice that might deafen a ballad-singer, when, confusion on 
confusion! who should enter the room but our two great 
acquaintances from town, Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina 
Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs ? Description would but beggar, 
therefore it is unnecessary to describe this new mortification. 
Death ! to be seen by ladies of such high breeding in such 
vulgar attitudes ! Nothing better could ensue from such a 
vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough’s proposing. We seemed 
struck to the ground for some time, as if actually petrified with 
amazement. 

The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding 
us from home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to 
know what accident could have kept us from church the day 
before. Olivia undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered 
the whole in a summary way, only saying, “We were thrown 
from our horses.” At which account the ladies were greatly 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


47 

concerned ; but being told the family received no hurt, they 
were extremely glad : but being informed that we were almost 
killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry ; but hearing that 
we had a very good night, they were extremely glad again. 
Nothing could exceed their complaisance to my daughters ; 
their professions the last evening were warm, but now they 
were ardent. They protested a desire of having a more lasting 
acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached to 
Olivia; Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to 
give the whole name) took a greater fancy to her sister. They 
supported the conversation between themselves, while my 
daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. But as 
every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high lived 
dialogues, with anecdotes of Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the 
Garter, I must beg leave to give him the concluding part of 
the present coversation. 

“ All that I know of the matter,” cried Miss Skeggs, “ is 
this, that it may be true, or it may not be true ; but this I can 
assure your ladyship, that the whole rout was in amaze ; his 
lordship turned all manner of colors, my lady fell into a sound .’ 
but Sir Tonkyn, drawing his sword, swore he was hers to the 
last drop of his blood.” 

“ Well,” replied our peeress, “ this I can say, that the 
duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, and I believe 
her grace would keep nothing a secret from me. This you 
may depend upon as a fact, that the next morning my lord 
duke cried out three times to his valet de chambre , Jernigan. 
Jernigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters.” 

But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite 
behavior of Mr. Burchell, who, during this discourse, sat with 
his face turned to the fire, and at the conclusion of every sen¬ 
tence would cry out fudge ! an expression which displeased us 
all, and in some measure damped the rising spirit of the con¬ 
versation. 

“ Besides, my dear Skeggs,” continued our peeress, “ there 
is nothing of this in the copy of verses that Dr. Burdock made 
upon the occasion.” Fudge! 

“ I am surprised at that,” cried Miss Skeggs ; “ for he 
seldom leaves anything out, and he writes only for his own 
amusement. But can your ladyship favor me with a sight of 
them ? ” Fudge ! 

“ My dear creature,” replied our peeress, “ do you think I 
carry such things about me ? Though they are very fine, to be 
Sure, and I think myself something of a judge; at least X 


trie A k OF WAX'FFIFLA 


48 

know what pleases myself. Indeed I was ever an admirer of 
all Dr. Burdock’s little pieces: for, except what he does, and 
our dear countess at Hanover-square* there’s nothing comes 
out but the most lowest stuff in nature ; not a bit of high life 
among them.” Fudge! 

“ Your ladyship should except,” says t’other, “ your own 
things in the Lady’s Magazine. I hope you’ll say there’s 
nothing low-lived there? But I suppose we are to have no 
more from that quarter ? ” Fudge ! 

“ Why, my dear,” says the lady, “ you know my reader and 
companion has left me, to be married to Captain Roach, and 
as my poor eyes wont suffer me to write myself, I have been 
for some time looking out for another. A proper person is no 
easy matter to find, and to be sure thirty pounds a year is a 
small stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can read, 
write, and behave in company; as for the chits about town, 
there is no bearing them about one.” Fudge ! 

“ That I know,” cried Miss Skeggs, “ by experience. For 
of the three companions I had this last half-year, one of them 
refused to do plain-work an hour in a day; another thought 
twenty-five guineas a year too small a salary, and I was obliged 
to send away the third, because I suspected an intrigue with 
the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virtue is worth 
any price : but where is that to be found ? ” Fudge / 

My wife had been for a long time all attention to this 
discourse; but was particularly struck with the latter part of it. 
Thirty pounds and twenty-five guineas a year, made fifty-six 
pounds five shillings English money, all which was in a manner 
going a-begging, and might easily be secured in the family. 
She for a moment studied my looks* for approbation ; and, to 
own a truth, I was of opinion that two such places would fit 
our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the ’Squire had any 
real affection for my eldest daughter, this would be the way to 
make her every way qualified for her fortune. My wife there¬ 
fore was resolved that we should not be deprived of such 
advantages for want of assurance, and undertook to harangue 
for the family. “ I hope,” cried she, “ your ladyship will 
pardon my present presumption. It is true, we have no right 
to pretend to such favors ; but yet it is natural for me to wish 
putting my children forward in the world. And I will be bold 
to say my two girls have had a pretty good education and 
capacity, at least the country can’t show better. They can 
read, write, and cast accounts; they understand their needle, 
broadstitch, cross and change, and all manner of plain-work 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


49 

Jhey can pink, point, and frill, and know something* of music; 
they can do up small clothes; work upon catgut: my eldest 
can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty manner of 
telling fortunes upon the cards.” Fudge ! 

When she had delivered this pretty piece ot eloquence, the 
two ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with 
an air of doubt and importance. At last Miss Carolina Wil- 
helmina Amelia Skeggs condescended to observe, that the 
young ladies, from the opinion she could form of them from so 
slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such employments : 
“ But a thing of this kind, madam,” cried she, addressing my 
spouse, “ requires a thorough examination into characters, and 
a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, madam,” con¬ 
tinued she, “ that I in the least suspect the young ladies’ virtue, 
prudence and discretion ; but there is a form in these things, 
madam, there is a form.” 

My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing that 
she was very apt to be suspicious herself; but referred her to 
all the neighbors for a character : but this our peeress declined 
as unnecessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill’s recom¬ 
mendation would be sufficient; and upon this we rested our 
petition. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield—Mortifications are 
often more painful than real calamities. 

When we were returned home the night was dedicated to 
schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity 
in conjecturing which of the two girls was likely to have the 
best place, and most opportunities of seeing good company. 
The only obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the 
’Squire’s recommendation ; but he had already shown us too 
many instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even in 
bed my wife kept up the usual theme : “ Well, faith, my dear 
Charles, between ourselves, I think we have made an excellent 
day’s work of it.”—“ Pretty well,” cried I, not knowing what 
to say. “What! only pretty well! ” returned she. “I think 
it is very well. Suppose the girls should come to make acquaint¬ 
ances of taste in town ! This I am assured of, that London 

4 . 





VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 


5° 

is the only place in the world for all manner of husbands. Be¬ 
sides, my dear, stranger things happen every day : and as 
ladies of quality are so taken with my daughters, what will not 
men of quality be ?—Entre nous , I protest I like my Lady 
Blarney vastly, so very obliging. However, Miss Carolina 
Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs has my warm heart. But when 
they came to talk of places in town, you saw at once how I 
nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don’t you think I did for my 
children there ? ” “ Ay,” returned I, not knowing well what to 

think of the matter, “ Heaven grant they may be both the 
better for it this day three months ! ” This was one of those 
observations I usually made to impress my wife with an opinion 
of my sagacity : for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious 
wish fulfilled; but if anything unfortunate ensued, then it 
might be looked upon as a prophecy. All this conversation, 
however, was only preparatory to another scheme, and indeed I 
dreaded as much. This was nothing less than that, as we were 
now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, it would 
be proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighbor¬ 
ing fair, and buy us a horse that would carry single or double 
upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or 
upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as 
stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, my antagonist 
gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part with him. 

As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions 
of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a 
cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from 
home. “No, my dear,” said she “our son Moses is a discreet 
boy, and can buy and sell to very good advantage : you know 
all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands 
out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain.” 

As I had some opinion of my son’s prudence, I was willing 
enough to entrust him with this commission ; and the next 
morning I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses 
for the fair : trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cock¬ 
ing his hat with pins. The business of the toilet being over, 
we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the 
colt, with a deal box before him to bring home groceries in. 
He had on a coat made of that cloth they call thunder and 
lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good 
to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of goslin green, and his 
sisters had tied his hair with a broad black ribbon. We all 
followed him several paces from the door, bawling after him 
good luck, good luck , till we could see him no longer. 


VICAR OP JPAICEFIELD .' 


He was scarcely gone when Mr. Thornhill’s buttev ^nfne to 
congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying, that he over¬ 
heard his young master mention our names with great commen¬ 
dation. 

Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another 
footman from the same family followed, with a card for my 
daughters, importing that the two ladies had received such 
pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that, after a few 
previous inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. “ Ay,” 
cried my wife, “ I now see it is no easy matter to get into the 
families of the great; but when one once gets in, then, as Moses 
says, one may go to sleep.” To this piece of humor, for she 
intended it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud laugh of 
pleasure. In short, such was her satisfaction at this message 
that she actually put her hand in her pocket, and gave the 
messenger seven-pence halfpenny. 

This was to be our visiting day. The next that came was 
Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little 
ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife under¬ 
took to keep for them and give them by letters at a time. He 
brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they 
might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, when they 
got it. My wife was usually fond of a weasel-skin purse, as 
being the most lucky; but this by the bye. We had still a re¬ 
gard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behavior was in 
some measure displeasing: nor could we now avoid communi¬ 
cating our happiness to him, and asking his advice; although 
we seldom followed advice, we were all ready enough to ask it. 
When he read the note from the two ladies, he shook his head, 
and observed, that an affair of this sort demanded the utmost 
circumspection. This air of diffidence highly displeased my 
wife. “ I never doubted, sir,” cried she, “ your readiness to 
be against my daughters and me. You have more circumspec¬ 
tion than is wanted. However, I fancy when we come to ask 
advice, we will apply to persons who seem to have made use of 
it themselves.”—“ Whatever my own conduct may have been,' 
madam,” replied he, “ is not the present question; though as 
I have made no use of advice myself, I should in conscience 
give it to those who will.”—As I was apprehensive that this an¬ 
swer might draw on a repartee, making up by abuse what it 
wanted in wit, I changed the subject, by seeming to wonder 
what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it was now al¬ 
most nightfall.—“ Never mind our son,” cried my wife, “ de¬ 
pend upon it he knows what he is about._IT warrant we’ll 




VICAR OR WAKEFIELD. 


5*1 

never see him sell his hen oi a rainy day. I have seen him buy 
such bargains as would amaze one. I’ll tell you a good story 
about that, that will make you split your sides a laughing.— 
But as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the 
box at his back.” 

As she spoke Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating 
under the deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders 
like a pedler.—“ Welcome, welcome, Moses; well, my boy, 
what have you brought us from the fair ? ”—“ I have brought 
you myself,” cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box 
on the dresser.”—“ Ah, Moses, cried my wife, that we know ; 
but where is the horse ? ” “I have sold him,” cried Moses, 
“for three pounds five shillings and twopence.”—“Well done, 
my good boy,” returned she ; “ I knew you would touch them 
off. Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and two 
pence is no bad day’s work. Come let us have it then.”—“ I 
have brought back no money,” cried Moses again. “ I have 
laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is,” pulling out a bundle 
from his breast; “ here they are ; a gross of green spectacles, 
with silver rims and shagreen cases.”—“ A gross of green spec¬ 
tacles ! ” repeated my wife in a faint voice. “ And you have 
parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross 
of paltry green spectacles ! ” “ Dear mother,” cried the boy, 

“ why won’t you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bargain, 
or I should not have bought them. The silver rims alone will 
sell for double the money.” “ A fig for the silver rims,” cried 
my wife in a passion : “ I dare say they won’t sell for above 
half the money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an 
ounce.”—“You need be under no uneasiness,” cried I, “ about 
selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence, for I perceive 
they are only copper varnished over.” “What,” cried my 
wife, “ not silver! the rims not silver ! ” “ No,” cried I, “ no 
more silver than your saucepan.”—“ And so,” returned she, 
“ we have parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of 
green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases ! A 
murrain take such trumpery. The blockhead has been imposed 
upon, and should have known his company better.”—“ There 
my dear,” cried I, “ you are wrong, he should not have known 
them at all.”—“ Marry, hang the idiot,” returned she, “ to 
bring me such stuff, if I had them I would throw them in the 
fire.” “There again you are wrong, my dear,” cried I; “for 
though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper 
spectacles, you know, are better than nothing.” 

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


53 

now saw that he had been imposed upon by a prowling snarper, 
who, observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I 
therefore asked the circumstance of his deception. He sold 
the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. 
A reverend looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence 
of having one to sell. “ Here,” continued Moses, “ we met 
another man very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty 
pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money, and would 
dispose of them for a third of the value. The first gentleman, 
who pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and 
cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. 
Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did 
me, and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross be¬ 
tween us.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Mr. Burchell is found to be an enemy ; for he has the confidence to give disagreeable 

advice. 

Our family had now made several attempts to be fine ; but 
some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. 
I endeavored to take the advantage of every disappointment, 
to improve their good sense in proportion as they were frus¬ 
trated in ambition. “You see, my children,” cried I, “how 
little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in 
coping with our betters. Such as are poor, and will as¬ 
sociate with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, 
and despised by those they follow. Unequal combinations are 
always disadvantageous to the weaker side : the rich having the 
pleasure, and the poor the inconveniences that result from them. 
But come, Dick, my boy, and repeat the fable that you were 
reading to-day, for the good of the company.” 

“Once upon a time,” cried the child, “ a giant and a dwarf 
were friends, and kept together. They made a bargain that 
they would never forsake each other, but go seek adventures. 
The first battle they fought was with two Saracens, and the 
dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a 
most angry blow. It did the Saracen very little injury, who, 
lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor dwarf’s arm. He 
\y^s now in a woful plight; but the giant coming to his assist- 




5'4 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


ance, in a short time left the Saracens dead on the plain, and 
the dwarf cut off the dead man’s head out of spite. They then 
travelled on to another adventure. This was against three 
bloody-minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in dis¬ 
tress. The dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before ; but 
for all that struck the first blow, which was returned by another 
that knocked out his eye ; but the giant was soon up with them, 
and had they not fled, would certainly have killed them every 
one. They were all very joyful for this victory, and the dam¬ 
sel who was relieved fell in love with the giant and married him. 
They now travelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they 
met with a company of robbers. The giant for the first 
time was foremost now ; but the dwarf was not far behind. 
The battle was stout and long. Wherever the giant came, all 
fell before him; but the dwarf had like to have been killed 
more than once. At last the victory declared for the two ad¬ 
venturers ; but the dwarf lost his leg. The dwarf was now 
without an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the giant was without 
a single wound. Upon which he cried out to his little com¬ 
panion, ‘ My little hero, this is glorious sport! let us get one 
victory more, and then we shall have honor forever.’ ‘ No/ 
cries the dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, ‘no, I 
declare off; I’ll fight no more: for I find in every battle that 
you get all the honor and rewards, but all the blows fall upon 
me.’ ” 

I was going to moralize this fable when our attention was 
called off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Burchell, 
upon my daughter’s intended expedition to town. My wife 
very strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would result 
from it; Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with great; 
ardor, and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions seemed 
but the second part of those which were received with so ill a 
grace in the morning. The dispute grew high, while poor Deb • 
orah, instead of reasoning stronger talked louder, and at last 
was obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamor. The 
conclusion of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing to 
us all: “she knew,” she said, “of some who had their own 
secret reasons for what they advised ; but, for her part, she 
wished such to stay away from her house for the future.” — 
“ Madam,” cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which 
tended to inflame her the more, “ as for secret reasons, you are 
right; I have secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, be¬ 
cause you are not able to answer those of which I make no 
secret: but I find my visits here are become troublesou»e ; i’ll 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


55 

lake my leave therefore now, and perhaps come once more to 
take a final farewell when I am quitting the country.” Thus 
saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of Sophia, 
whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his 
going. 

When gone we all regarded each other for some minutes 
with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, 
strove to hide her concern with a forced smile, and an air of 
assurance, which I was willing to reprove: “ How, woman,” 
cried I to her, “ is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it thus wc 
return their kindness ? Be assured, my dear, that these were 
the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing that ever 
escaped your lips ! ”—“ Why would he provoke me then ? ” 
replied she ; “ but I know the motives of his advice perfectly 
well. He would prevent my girls from going to town, that he 
may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter’s company 
here at home. But whatever happens, she shall choose better 
company than such low-lived fellows as he.”—“ Low-lived, my 
dear, do you call him ? ” cried I; “it is very possible we may 
mistake this man’s character, for he seems upon some occa¬ 
sions the most finished gentleman I ever knew.—Tell me, 
Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of 
his attachment ? ” “ His conversation with me, sir,” replied 

my daughter, “has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. 
As to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to have 
heard him say, he never knew a woman who could find merit in 
a man that seemed poor.” “ Such, my dear,” cried I, “ is the 
common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But I hope you 
have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it 
would be even madness to expect happiness from one who has 
been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother and 
I have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which 
you will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of 
making a more prudent choice.” 

What Sophia’s reflections were upon this occasion I can’t 
pretend to determine: but I was not displeased at the bottom, 
that we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. 
Our breach of hospitality went to my conscience a little; but 
I quickly silenced that monitor by two or three specious rea¬ 
sons, which served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The 
pain which conscience gives the man who has already done 
wrong, is soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and those 
faults it has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom 
justice enough to accuse. 



.VICAR OR WAKEFIELD. 


56 


CHAPTER XIV. 

^resti Mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming Calamities may be real 

Blessings. 

The journey of my daughters to town was now resolved 
upon, Mr. Thornhill having kindly promised to inspect their 
conduct himself, and inform us by letter of their behavior. 
But it was thought indispensably necessary that their ap¬ 
pearance should equal the greatness of their expectations, 
which could not be done without expense. We debated 
therefore in full council what were the easiest methods of rais¬ 
ing money, or more properly speaking, what we could most 
conveniently sell. The deliberation was soon finished ; it was 
found that our remaining horse was utterly useless for the 
plough without his companion, and equally unfit for the road, 
as wanting an eye ; it was therefore determined that we should 
dispose of him for the purposes above mentioned, at the neigh¬ 
boring fair, and to prevent imposition that I should go with 
him myself. Though this was one of the first mercantile trans¬ 
actions of my life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself 
with reputation. The opinion a man forms of his own pru¬ 
dence is measured by that of the company he keeps ; and as 
mine was mostly in the family way, 1 had conceived no urn 
favorable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My wife, how¬ 
ever, next morning, at parting, after I had got some paces 
from the door, called me back, to advise me in a whisper, to 
have all my eyes about me. 

I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my 
horse through all his paces ; but for some time had no bidders. 
At last a chapman approached, and after he had for a good 
while examined the horse round, finding him blind of one eye, 
he would have nothing to say to him ; a second came up, but 
observing he had a spavin, declared he would not take him for 
the driving home ; a third person perceived he had a windgall, 
and would bid no money ; a fourth knew by his eye that he 
had the botts ; a fifth wondered what a plague I could do at 
the fair with a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit 
to be cut up for a dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a 
most hearty contempt for the poor animal myself, and was 
almost ashamed at the approach of every customer; for though 


V/CAR OF WAKEFIELD 


57 


I did not entirely believe all the fellows told me, yet I re¬ 
flected that the number of witnesses was a strong presumption 
they were right; and St. Gregory upon Good Works, professes 
himself to be of the same opinion. 

I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergy¬ 
man, an old acquaintance, who had also business at the fair, 
came up, and shaking me by the hand, proposed adjourning 
to a public-house, and taking a glass of whatever we could get. 
I readily closed with the offer, and entering an alehouse we 
were shown into a little back room, where there was only a 
venerable old man, who sat wholly intent over a large book, 
which he was reading. I never in my life saw a figure that 
prepossessed me more favorably. His locks of silver gray 
venerably shaded his temples, and his green old age seemed 
to be the result of health and benevolence. However, his 
presence did not interrupt our conversation : my friend and I 
discoursed on the various turns of fortune we had met; the 
Whistonian controversy, my last pamphlet, the archdeacon’s 
reply, and the hard measure that was dealt me. But our 
attention was in a short time taken off by the appearance of a 
youth, who entering the room, respectfully said somethtng 
softly to the old stranger. “ Make no apologies my child,” 
said the old man, “ to do good is a duty we owe to all our 
fellow-creatures; take - this, I wish it were more; but five 
pounds will relieve your distress, and you are welcome.” The 
modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his gratitude 
was scarcely equal to mine. I could have hugged the old man 
in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to 
read, and we resumed our conversation, until my companion, 
after some time, recollecting that he had business to transact 
in the fair, promised to be soon back, adding, that he always 
desired to have as much of Dr. Primrose’s company as pos¬ 
sible. The old gentleman hearing my name mentioned, seemed 
to look at me with attention for some time, and when my 
friend was gone, most respectfully demanded if I was any way 
related to the great Primrose, that courageous monogamist, 
who had been the bulwark of the church. Never did my heart 
feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. “ Sir,” cried I, “ the 
applause of so good a man, as I am sure you are, adds to that 
happiness in my breast which your benevolence has already 
excited. You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the 
monogamist, whom you have been pleased to call great. You 
here see that unfortunate divine, who has so long, and it would 
ill become me to say successfully, fought against the deuterog- 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


58 

omy of the age.”—“ Sir,” cried the stranger, struck with awe, 
“ I fear I have been too familiar; but you’ll forgive my curios¬ 
ity, sir: I beg pardon.”—“ Sir,” cried I, grasping his hand, 
“ you are so far from displeasing me by your familiarity, that I 
must beg you’ll accept my friendship, as you already have my 
esteem.”—“Then with gratitude I accept the offer,” cried he, 
squeezing me by the hand, “ thou glorious pillar of unshaken 
orthodoxy ! and do I behold—” I here interrupted what he 
was going to say; for though, as an author, I could digest no 
small share of flattery, yet now my modesty would permit no 
more. However, no lovers in romance ever cemented a more 
instantaneous friendship. We talked upon several-subjects, at 
first I thought he seemed rather devout than learned, and be¬ 
gan to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet 
this no way lessened him in my esteem ; for I had for some 
time begun privately to harbor such an opinion myself. I 
therefore took occasion to observe, that the world in general 
began to be blamably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and 
followed human speculations too much—“ Ay, sir,” replied he, 
as if he had reserved all his learning to that moment, “ ay, sir, 
the world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or creation 
of the world has puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a 
medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation 
of the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus 
Lucanus have all attempted it in vain. The latter has .these 
words, Anarchon ara kai atelutciion to pan , which imply that all 
things have neither beginning nor end. Manetho also, who 
lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser,—Asser being a 
Syriac word usually applied as a surname to the kings of that 
country, as Teglat Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser, — he, I say, 
formed a conjecture equally absurd ; for as we usually say, ek 
to biblion kubernetes , which implies that books will never teach 
the world ; so he attempted to investigate—But, sir, I ask par¬ 
don, I am straying from the question.”—That he actually was ; 
nor could I for my life see how the creation of the world had 
anything to do with the business I was talking of; but it was 
sufficient to show me that he was a man of letters, and I now 
reverenced him the more. I was resolved therefore to bring 
him to the touchstone ; but he was too mild and too gentle to 
contend for victory. Whenever I made an observation that 
looked like a challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake 
his head, and say nothing: by which I understood he could 
say much, if he thought proper. The subject therefore insen¬ 
sibly changed from the business of antiquity to that which 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


59 

brought us both to the fair: mine, I told him, was to sell a 
horse, and very luckily indeed, his was to buy one for one of 
his tenants. My horse was soon produced, and in fine we 
struck a bargain. Nothing now remained but to pay me, and 
he accordingly pulled out a thirty pound note, and- bid me 
change it. Not being in a capacity of complying with this de- 
mand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who made his 
i appearance in a very genteel livery. “ Here, Abraham,” cried 
! he, “go and get gold for this; you’ll do it at neighbor Jack- 
i son’s or anywhere.” While the fellow was gone, he enter- 
! tained me with a pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of 
silver, which I undertook to improve, by deploring also the 
great scarcity of gold; so that by the time Abraham returned, 
we had both agreed that money was never so hard to be come 
at as now. Abraham returned to inform us, that he had been 
! over the whole fair, and could not get change, though he had 
offered half a crown for doing it. This was a very great dis¬ 
appointment to us all; but the old gentleman, having paused 
a little, asked me if I knew one Solomon Flamborough in my 
part of the country ? Upon replying that he was my next-door 
neighbor; “ if that be the case then,” returned he, “ I believe 
I we shall deal. You shall have a draft upon him payable at 
sight; and let me tell you, he is as warm a man as any within 
five miles round him. Honest Solomon and I have been ac¬ 
quainted for many years together. I remember I always beat 
him at three jumps; but he could hop on one leg farther than 
I.” A draft upon my neighbor was to me the same as money; 
for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability. The draft was 
signed, and put into my hands, and Mr. Jenkinson, the old 
gentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, old Blackberry, 
trotted off very well pleased with each other. 

After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began to 
recollect that I had done wrong in taking a draft from a stran¬ 
ger, and so prudently resolved upon following the purchaser, 
ancl having back my horse. But this was now too late ; I 
therefore made directly homewards, resolving to get the draft 
changed into money at my friend’s as fast as possible. I found 
my honest neighbor smoking his pipe at his own door, and in¬ 
forming him that I had a small bill upon him, he read it twice 
over. “ You can read the name, I suppose,” cried I, “ Eph¬ 
raim Jenkinson.” “Yes,” returned he, “the name is written 
plain enough, and I know the gentleman too, the greatest ras¬ 
cal under the canopy of heaven. This is the very same rogue 
who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a venerable looking 




6o 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


man, with gray hair, and no flaps to Ins pocket-holes ? And 
did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek, and cos¬ 
mogony, and the world ? ” To this I replied with a groan. 
“ Ay,” continued he, “ he has but that one piece of learning in 
the world, and he always talks it away whenever he finds a 
scholar in company: but I know the rogue, and will catch him 
yet.” 

Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest 
struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No 
truant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there to 
behold the master’s visage, than I was of going home. I was 
determined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first falling 
into a passion myself. 

But, alas! upon entering, I found the family no way dis¬ 
posed to battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. 
Thornhill having been there that day to inform them, that their 
journey to town was entirely over. The two ladies having 
heard reports of us from some malicious person about us, were 
rfiat day set out for London. He could neither discover the 
tendency, nor the author of these ; but whatever they might be, 
or whoever might have broached them, he continued to assure 
our family of his friendship and protection. I found, there¬ 
fore, that they bore my disappointment with great resignation, 
as it was eclipsed in the greatness of their own. But what 
perplexed us most, was to think who could be so base as to 
asperse the character of a family so harmless as ours, too hum¬ 
ble to excite envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust. 


/ 


CHAPTER XV. 

All Mr. Burchell’s villany at once detected.—The folly of being over-wise. 

That evening, and a part of the following day, was em¬ 
ployed in fruitless attempts to discover our enemies ; scarcely 
a family in the neighborhood but incurred our suspicions, and 
each of us had reasons for our opinion best known to ourselves. 
As we were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who had 
been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case which he found 
on the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr. Burchell, 
with whom it had been seen, and, upon examination, contained 
some hints upon different subjects \ but what particularly en- 



vicar op Wakefield. 


6t 

gaged our attention was a sealed note superscribed, The copy of 
a letter to be sent to the two ladies at Thornhill-castle. It instantly 
occurred that he was the base informer, and we deliberated 
whether the note should not be broken open. I was against 
it ; but Sophia, who said she was sure that of all men he would 
be the last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its 
being read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the family, 
and at their solicitation I read as follows: 

“ Ladies, 

“ The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person 
from whom this comes: one at least the friend of innocence, 
and ready to prevent its being seduced. I am informed for a 
truth that you have some intention of bringing two young 
ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge of, under the 
character of companions. As I would neither have simplicity 
imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as my 
opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended 
with dangerous consequences. It has never been my way to 
treat the infamous or the lewd with severity; nor should I now 
have taken this method of explaining myself, or reproving 
folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take therefore the admonition 
of a friend, and seriously reflect on the consequences of intro¬ 
ducing infamy and vice into retreats, where peace and inno¬ 
cence have hitherto resided.” 

Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed indeed 
something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its cen¬ 
sures might as well be referred to those to whom it was written, 
as to us; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went 
no farther. My wife had scarcely patience to hear me to the 
end, but railed at the writer with unrestrained resentment. 
Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed 
at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the 
vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had met with ; nor 
could I account for it in any other manner, than by imputing 
it to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the coun¬ 
try, to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. 
In this manner we all set ruminating upon schemes of ven¬ 
geance, when our other little boy came running in to tell us 
that Mr. Burchell was approaching at the other end of the 
field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated 
sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, 
and the pleasure of approaching vengeance.^ Though our in¬ 
tentions were nnlv to upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it 




0 * 


VICAR OP IVAKPPTELD. 

was resolved to do it in a manner that would be- perfectly cut' 
ting. For this purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual 
smiles; to chat in the beginning with more than ordinary kind¬ 
ness ; to amuse him a little ; and then, in the midst of the 
flattering calm, to burst upon him like an earthquake, and over¬ 
whelm him with a sense of his own baseness. This being re¬ 
solved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business her¬ 
self, as she really had some talents for such an undertaking. 
We saw him approach ; he entered, drew a chair, and sat down. 
—“ A fine day, Mr. Burchell.”—“ A very fine day, doctor; 
though I fancy we shall have some rain by the shooting of my 
corns.”—“ The shooting of your corns ! ” cried my wife with a 
loud fit laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond of a 
joke.—“ Dear madam,” replied he, “ I pardon you with all my 
heart, for I protest I should not have thought it a joke had you 
not told me.”—“ Perhaps not, sir,” cried my wife, winking at 
us ; “ and yet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes go to 
an ounce.” “I fancy, madam,” returned Mr. Burchell, “you 
have been reading a jest book this morning, that ounce of jokes 
is so very good a conceit; and yet, madam, I had rather see 
half an ounce of understanding.”—“ I believe you might,” cried 
my wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh was against her: 
“ and yet I have seen some men pretend to understanding that 
have very little.” “ And no doubt,” returned the antagonist, 
“ you have known ladies set up for wit that had none.” I 
quickly began to find that my wife was likely to gain but little 
at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in a style of more 
severity myself. “ Both wit and understanding,” cried I, “ are 
trifles without integrity; it is that which gives value to every 
character. The ignorant peasant without fault, is greater than 
the philosopher with many ; for what is genius or courage with¬ 
out a heart ? An honest man is the noblest work of GodA 

“ I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope,” returned 
Mr. Burchell, “ as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base 
desertion of his own superiority. As the reputation of books 
is raised, not by their freedom from defect, but the greatness 
of their beauties ; so should that of men be prized, not for their 
exemption from fault, but the size of those virtues they are 
possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the statesman 
may have pride, and the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer 
to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods through life 
without censure or applause ? We might as well prefer the 
tame, correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous 
but sublime animations of the Roman pencil.” 


vicar of Wakefield 


H 

“ Sir,” replied I, “ your present ooservation is just, when 
there are shining virtues and minute defects, but when it ap- 
pears that great vices are opposed in the same mind to as ex¬ 
traordinary virtues, such a character deserves contempt.” 

“ Perhaps,” cried he, “ there may be some such monsters 
as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues ; yet in 
my progress through life, I never yet found one instance ot 
their existence ; on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that 
where the mind was capacious, the affections were good. And 
indeed Providence seems kindly our friend in this particular, 
thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is corrupt, 
and diminish the power, where there is the will to do mischief. 
This rule seems to extend even to other animals : the little 
vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst 
those endowed with strength and power are generous, brave, 
and gentle.” 

“ These observations sound well,” returned I, “ and yet it 
would be easy this moment to point out a man,” and I fixed my 
eye steadfastly upon him, “ whose head and heart form a most 
detestable contrast. Ay, sir,” continued I, raising my voice, 
“ and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting him in 
the midst of his fancied security. Do you know this, sir, this 
pocket-book?”—“Yes, sir,” returned he, with a face of im¬ 
penetrable assurance, “ that pocket-book is mine, and I am 
glad you have found it.”—“ And do you know,” cried I, “ this 
letter ? Hay, never falter, man ; but look me full in the face : 
I say, do you know this letter? ” “ That letter,” returned he ; 

“yes, it was I that wrote that letter.”—“ And how could you,” 
said I, “ so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this 
letter ? ”—“ And how came you,” replied he with looks of in- 
paralleled effrontery, “ so basely to presume to break open 
this letter ? Don’t you know, now, I could hang you for all 
this ? All that I have to do is to swear at the next justice’s, 
that you have been guilty of breaking open the lock of my 
pocket-book, and so hang you all up at this door.” This piece 
of unexpected insolence raised me to such a pitch, that I could 
scarce govern my passion. “ Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and 
no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness ! begone, and 
never let me see thee again ! Go from my door, and the only 
punishment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will 
be a sufficient tormentor ! ” So saying, I threw him his pocket- 
book, which he took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps 
with the utmost composure, left us quite astonished at the 
serenity of his assurance. My wife was particularly enraged 



VicAk ok Wakefield. 


64 

that nothing could maite him angry, or make him seem ashamed 
of his villanies. “ My dear,” cried I, willing to calm those 
passions that had been raised too high among us, “we are 
not to be surprised that bad men want shame ; they only blush 
at being detected in doing good, but glory in their vices. 

“ Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at first compan¬ 
ions, and in the beginning of their journey, inseparably kept 
together. But their union was soon found to be disagreeable 
and inconvenient to both; Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasi¬ 
ness, and Shame often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. 
After long disagreement, therefore, they at length consented to 
part forever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone to overtake 
Fate, that went before them in the shape of an executioner; 
but Shame being naturally timorous, returned back to keep 
company with Virtue, which in the beginning of their journey 
they had left behind. Thus, my children, after men have 
travelled through a few stages in vice, shame forsakes them, 
and returns back to wait upon the few virtues they have still 
remaining.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The family use Art, which is opposed with still greater. 

Whatever might have been Sophia’s sensations, the rest of 
the family was easily consoled for Mr. BurchelFs absence by 
the company of our landlord, whose visits now became more 
frequent and longer. Though he had been disappointed in 
procuring my daughters the amusements of the town, as he 
designed, he took every opportunity of supplying them with 
those little recreations which our retirement would admit of. 
He usually came in the morning, and while my son and I fol¬ 
lowed our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, 
and amused them by describing the town, with every part of 
which he was particularly acquainted. He could repeat all the 
observations that were retailed in the atmosphere of the play¬ 
houses, and had all the good things of the high wits by rote, 
long before they made their way into the jest-books. The 
intervals between conversation were employed in teaching my 
daughters piquet, or sometimes in setting my two little ones to 
box, to make them sharp , as he called it: but the hopes *>f 



vtcar or Wakefield. 


*5 

having him for a son-in-law, in some measure blinded us to all 
his imperfections. It must be owned, that my wife laid a 
thousand schemes to entrap him ; or, to speak more tenderly, 
used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the 
cakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were made by Olivia ; if 
the gooseberry-wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her 
gathering: it was her fingers which gave the pickles their 
peculiar green; and in the composition of a pudding, it was 
her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor 
woman would sometimes tell the ’Squire, that she thought him 
and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to 
see which was the tallest. These instances of cunning, which 
she thought impenetrable, yet which everybody saw through, 
were very pleasing to our benefactor, who gave every day some 
new proofs of his passion, which, though they had not arisen to 
proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but little short of it; 
and his slowness was attributed sometimes to native bashful¬ 
ness, and sometimes to his fear of offending his uncle. An 
occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put it beyond 
a doubt that he designed to become one of our family; my 
wife even regarded it as an absolute promise. 

My wife and daughters happening to return a visit to neigh¬ 
bor Flamborough’s, found that family had lately got their pic¬ 
tures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, and took 
likenesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours 
had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the 
alarm at this stolen march upon us, and notwithstanding all I 
could say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have 
pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged the limner,— 
for what could I do ?—our next deliberation was to show the 
superiority of our tastes in the attitudes. As for our neighbor’s 
family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with 
seven oranges , a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no 
composition in the world. We desired to have something in a 
brighter stvle, and, after many debates, at length came to an 
unanimou resolution of being drawn together in one large 
historical i xnily piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame 
would serv ; for all, and it would be infinitely more genteel; for 
all families of any taste were now drawn in the same manner. 
As we did i lot immediately recollect an historical subject to hit 
us, we were contented each with being drawn as independent 
historical figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, 
and the painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds 
in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as 




C6 


VICAR CF WAKEFIELD. 


Cupids by her side, while I in my gown and band, was to pre¬ 
sent her with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia 
would be drawn as an Amazon sitting upon a bank of flowers, 
dressed in a green joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip 
in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many 
sheep as the painter could put in for nothing; and Moses was 
to be dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our taste so 
much pleased the ’Squire, that he insisted as being put in as 
one of the family in the character of Alexander the Great, at 
Olivia’s feet. This was considered by us all as an indication 
of his desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we re¬ 
fuse this request. The painter was therefore set to work, and 
as he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four 
days the whole was completed. The piece was large, and it 
must be owned he did not spare his colors ; for which my wife 
gave him great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied 
with his performance; but an unfortunate circumstance had 
not occurred till the picture was finished, which now struck us 
with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in 
the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material 
a point is inconceivable; but certain it is, we had been all 
greatly remiss. The picture therefore instead of gratifying our 
vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying manner, 
against the kitchen wall, where the canvas was stretched and 
painted, much too large to be got through any of the doors, 
and the jest of all our neighbors. One compared it to Robin¬ 
son Crusoe’s long-boat, too large to be removed ; another 
thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle : some wondeted 
how it could be got out, but still more were amazed how it ever 
got in. 

But though it excited the ridicule of come, it effectually 
raised more malicious suggestions in many. The ’Squire’s por¬ 
trait being found united with ours, was an honor too great to 
escape envy. Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our 
expense, and our tranquillity was continually disturbed by per¬ 
sons who came as friends to tell us what was sa .d of us by 
enemies. These reports we always resented with becoming 
spirit ; but scandal ever improves by opposition. 

We once again therefore entered into a consultation upon 
obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a reso¬ 
lution which had too much cunning to give me entire satisfac¬ 
tion. It was this : as our principal object was to discover the 
honor of Mr. Thornhill’s addresses, my wife undertook to sound 
him, by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a husband 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


67 

i 

for her eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to in¬ 
duce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him 
with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no means 
give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assur¬ 
ances that she would marry the person provided to rival him 
upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it by taking her him¬ 
self. Such was the scheme laid, which though I did not strenu¬ 
ously oppose, I did not entirely approve. 

The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see 
us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give 
their mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme into execu¬ 
tion ; but they only retired to the next room, whence they could 
overhear the whole conversation. My wife artfully introduced 
it, by observing, that one of the Miss Flamboroughs was like 
to have a very good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 
’Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that they who had 
warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands ; 
“ But heaven help,” continued she, “ the girls that have none. 
What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the 
virtue, and all the qualifications in the world, in this age of self- 
interest ? It is not,what is she ? but what has she ? is all the cry.” 

“ Madam,” returned he, “ I highly approve the justice, as 
well as the novelty of your remarks, and if I were a king, it 
should be otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times 
with the girls without fortunes : our two young ladies should be 
the first for whom I would provide.” 

“ Ah, sir,” returned my wife “ you are pleased to be face¬ 
tious : but I wish I were a queen, and then I know where my 
eldest daughter should look for a husband. But now, that you 
have put it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can’t 
you recommend me a proper husband for her ? she is now 
nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my 
humble opinion, does not want for parts.” 

“ Madam,” replied he, “ if I were to choose, I would find out 
a person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an 
angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity ; 
such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband.” 
“ Ay, sir,” said she, “ but do you know of any such person ? ” 

•—“ No, madam,” returned he, “ It is impossible to know any 
person that deserves to be her husband : she’s too great a 
treasure for one man’s possession ; she’s a goddess ! Upon 
my soul, I speak what I think ; she’s an angel.”—“ Ah, Mr. 
Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl ; but we have been 
thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants whose mother 



68 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


is lately dead, and who wants a manager: you know whom I 
mean, Farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to 
give her good bread ; and who has several times made her pro¬ 
posals (which was actually the case) : but, sir,” concluded she, 
“ I should be glad to have your approbation of our choice.” 
■—“ How ! madam ! ” replied he, “ my approbation ! My appro¬ 
bation of such a choice !—Never. What! sacrifice so much 
beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the 
blessing ! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of 
injustice ! And I have my reasons.”—“ Indeed, sir,” cried 
Deborah, “ if you have your reasons, that’s another affair ; but 
I should be glad to know those reasons.” — “ Excuse me, 
madam,” returned he, “they lie too deep for discovery (laying 
his hand upon his bosom) ; they remain buried, rivetted here.” 

After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we could 
not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia consid¬ 
ered them as instances of the most exalted passion ; but I was 
not quite so sanguine ; it seemed to me pretty plain, that they 
had more of love than matrimony in them ; yet whatever they 
might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of 
Farmer Williams, who, from my daughter’s first appearance in 
the country, had paid her his addresses 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the power of long and pleasing Temptation. 

As I only studied my child’s real happiness, the assiduity 
of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, 
prudent, and sincere. It required but very little encourage¬ 
ment to revive his former passion; so that in an evening or 
two he and Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each 
other for some time with looks of anger ; but Williams owed 
his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indignation. Olivia 
on her side, acted the coquette to perfection, if that might be 
called acting which was her real character, pretending to lavish 
all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thornhill appeared 
quite dejected at this preference, and with a pensive air took 
leave, though I own it puzzled me to find him so much in pain 
as he appeared to be, when he had it in his power so easily to 
remove the cause, by declaring an honorable passion. But 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


69 

whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be 
perceived that Olivia’s anguish was still greater. After any of 
these interviews between her lovers, of which there were sev¬ 
eral, she usually retired to solitude, and there indulged hei 
grief. It was in such a situation I found her one evening, 
after she had been for some time supporting a fictitious gayety. 

“ You now see, my child,” said I, “ that your confidence in Mr. 
Thornhill’s passion was all a dream; he permits the rivalry of 
another, every way his inferior, though he knows it lies in his 
power to secure you to himself by a candid declaration.”— 
“ Yes, papa,” returned she, “ but he has his reasons for this 
delay, I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and words 
convinces me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will 
discover the generosity of his sentiments, and convince you 
that my opinion of him has been more just than yours.”— 
“ Olivia, my darling,” returned I, “ every scheme that has been 
hitherto pursued to compel him to a declaration, has been pro¬ 
posed and planned by yourself, nor can you in the least say 
that I have constrained you. But you must not suppose, my 
dear, that I will be instrumental in suffering his honest rival to 
be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time you 
require to bring your fancied admirer to an explanation, shall 
be granted ; but at the expiration of that term, if he is still re¬ 
gardless, I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams 
shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I have 
hitherto supported in life demands this from me, and my ten¬ 
derness as a parent shall never influence my integrity as a man. 
Name then your day; let it be as distant as you think proper • 
and in the meantime take care to let Mr. Thornhill know the 
exact time on which I design delivering you up to another. If 
he really loyes you, his own good sense will readily suggest 
that there is but one method alone to prevent his losing you for¬ 
ever.”—This proposal, which she could not avoid considering 
as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed 
her most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams in case of 
the other’s insensibility; and at the next opportunity, in Mr. 
Thornhill’s presence, that day month was fixed upon for hei 
nuptials with his rival. 

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thorn 
hill’s anxiety : but what Olivia really felt gave me some un. 
easiness. In this struggle between prudence and passion, hev 
vivacity quite forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude, 
was sought and spent in tears. One week passed away; but 
Mr. Thornhill made no effort to restrain her nuptials. The 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


JO 

succeeding week he was still assiduous ; but not more open. 
On the third he discontinued his visits entirely, and instead of 
my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, she 
seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon as 
resignation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased 
with thinking that my child was going to be secured in a con¬ 
tinuance of competence and peace, and frequently applauded 
her resolution, in preferring happiness to ostentation. 

It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that 
my little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, 
telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future; 
busied in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at what¬ 
ever folly came uppermost. “Well, Moses,” cried I, “ we shall 
soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family; what is your 
opinion of matters and things in general ? ”—“ My opinion, 
father, is, that all things go on very well; and I was just now 
thinking, that when sister Livy is married to Farmer Williams, 
we shall then have the loan of his cider press and brewing tubs 
for nothing.”—“ That we shall, Moses,” cried I, “ and he will 
sing us Death and the Lady , to raise our spirits, into the bar¬ 
gain.” “ He has taught that song to our Dick,” cried Moses, 
“ and I think he goes through it very prettily.” “ Does he so ? ” 
cried I, “ then let us have it: where’s little Dick ? let him up 
with it boldly.”—“ My brother Dick,” cried Bill, my youngest, 
“ is just gone out with sister Livy ; but Mr. Williams has 
taught me two songs, and I’ll sing them for you, papa. Which 
song do you choose, The Dying Swan or the Elegy o?i the Death of 
a Mad Dog l ” “ The elegy, child, by all means,” said I; ‘ I 

never heard that yet; and Deborah, my life, grief, you know, 
is dry, let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry wine to keep 
up our spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of 
late, that, without an enlivening glass, I am sure this will over¬ 
come me ; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with 
the boy a little.” 

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song, 

And if you find it wondrous short, 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 

Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, 

Whene’er he went to pray. 


yJCAR OF WAKEFIELD . 




A kind and gentle heart he had, 

Totcomfort friends and foes; 

The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be, 

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends; 

But when a pique began, 

The dog, to gain some private ends 
Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets. 

The wondering neighbors ran, 

And swore the dog had lost his wits. 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem’d both sore and sad 
To every Christian eye ; 

And while they swore the dog was mad. 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That showed the rogues they lied,— 

The man recovered of the bite 
The dog it was that died. 

“ A very good boy, Bill, upon my word, and an elegy that 
may truly be called tragical. Come, my children, here’s Bill’s 
health, and may he one day be a bishop! ” 

“ With all my heart,” cried my wife; “ and if he but 
preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The 
most of his family, by the mother’s side, could sing a good 
song : it was a common saying in our country, that the family 
of the Blenkinsops could never look straight before them, nor 
the Hugginsons blow out a candle ; that there were none of 
the Grogr.ams but could sing a song, or of Marjorams but could 
tell a story.”—“ However that be,” cried I, “ the most vulgai 
ballad of them all generally pleases me better than the fina 
modern odes, and things that petrify us in a single stanza; 
productions that we at once detest and praise. Put the glass 
to your brother, Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts is, 
that they are in despair for griefs that gives the sensible part 
of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her fan, or 
her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify the 
disaster.” 

“ That may be the mode,” cried Moses, “ in sublimer com¬ 
positions ; but the Ranelagh songs that come down to us are 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


perfectly familiar, and all cast in the same mould : Colin meets 
Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together ; he gives her a fairing 
to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay ; and 
then they go together to church, where they give good advice 
to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they 
can.” 

“ And very good advice too,” cried I ; “ and I am told 
there is not a place in the world where advice can be given 
with so much propriety as there ; for as it persuades us to 
marry, it also furnishes us with a wife : and surely that must be 
an excellent market, my boy, where we are told what we want, 
and supplied with it when wanting.” 

“ Yes, sir,” returned Moses, “ and I know of but two such 
markets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Font- 
arabia in Spain. The Spanish market is open once a year; 
but our English wives are saleable every night.” 

“ You are right, my boy,” cried his mother ; “ Old England 
is the only place in the world for husbands to get wives.”—And 
for wives to manage their husbands,” interrupted I. “ It is a 
proverb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the 
ladies of the continent would come over to take patterns from 
ours; for there are no such wives in Europe as our own. But let 
us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life ; and Moses, give us 
a good song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus 
bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence. I think myself 
happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has 
no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deb¬ 
orah, we are now growing old ; but the evening of our life is 
likely to be happy. We are descended from ancestors that 
knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of 
children behind us. While we live, they will be our support 
and our pleasure here ; and when we die, they will transmit 
our honor untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for 
a song : let us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia ? 
That little cherub’s voice is always sweetest in the concert.”— 
Just as I spoke, Dick came running in, “ O papa, papa, she 
is gone from us, she is gone from us; my sister Livy is gone 
from us forever.”—“ Gone, child ! ” “ Yes, she is gone off with 

two gentlemen in a postchaise, and one of them kissed her, and 
said he would die for her : and she cried very much, and was 
for coming back; but he persuaded her again, and she went 
into the chaise, and said, O what will my poor papa do when 
he knows I am undone ! ” “ Now then,” cried I, “ my children, 

go and be miserable \ for we shall never enjoy one hour more. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


And O, may Heaven’s everlasting fury light upon him and his 1 
—Thus to rob me of my child !—And sure it will, for taking 
back my sweet innocent that I was leading up to Heaven. 
Such sincerity as my child was possessed of!—But all oui 
earthly happiness is now over! Go, my children, go and be 
miserable and infamous : for my heart is broken within me I • 
“ Father,” cried my son, “ is this your fortitude ? ”—“ Fortitude, 
child ! Yes, he shall s^e I have fortitude ! Bring me my 
pistols. I’ll pursue the traitor : while he is on earth I’ll pursue 
him. Old as I am he shall find I can sting him yet. The vil¬ 
lain ! The perfidious villain! ” I had by this time reached 
down my pistols, when my poor wife, whose passions were not 
so strong as mine, caught me in her arms. “ My dearest, dear¬ 
est husband,” cried she, “ the Bible is the only weapon that is 
fit for your old hands now. Open that, my love, and read our 
anguish into patience, for she has vilely deceived us.”—“ In¬ 
deed, sir,” resumed my son, after a pause, “ your rage is too 
violent and unbecoming. You should be my mother’s comfor¬ 
ter, and you increase her pain. It ill suited you and your rev¬ 
erend character, thus to curse your greatest enemy : you should 
not have cursed him, villain as he is.”—“ I did not curse him, 
child, did I ? ”—“ Indeed, sir, you did ; you cursed him twice.” 

■—“ Then may Heaven forgive me and him if I did ! And now, 
my son, I see it was more than human benevolence that first 
taught us to bless o-ur enemies ! Blessed be his holy name for 
all the good he hath given, and for all that he hath taken away. 
But it is not—it is not a small distress that can wring tears 
from these old eyes, that have not wept for so many years. 
My child !—To undo my darling!—May confusion seize—Hea¬ 
ven forgive me, what am I about to say !—You may remember, 
my love, how good she w r as, and how charming; till this vile 
moment, all her care was to make us happy. Had she but 
died !—But she is gone, the honor of our family contaminated, 
and I must look out for happiness in other worlds than here. 
But, my child, you saw them go off: perhaps he forced her 
away ? If he forced her, she may yet be innocent.”—“Ah no, 
sir,” cried the child; “ he only kissed her, and called her his 
angel, and she wept very much, and leaned upon his arm, and 
they drove off very fast.”—“ She’s an ungrateful creature,” 
cried my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, “ to use 
us thus. She never had the least constraint put upon her af¬ 
fections. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her parents 
without any provocation—thus to bring your gray hairs to the 
grave, and I must shortly follow.” 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


74 

In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, 
was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies 
of enthusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, 
wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The next morn¬ 
ing we missed our wretched child at breakfast, where she used 
to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, at¬ 
tempted to ease her heart by reproaches. “ Never,” cried she, 
“ shall that vilest stain of our family again darken these harm¬ 
less doors. I will never call her daughter more. No, let the 
strumpet live with her vile seducer: she may bring us to shame, 
but she shall never more deceive us.” 

“ Wife,” said I, “ do not talk thus hardly : my detestation 
of her guilt is as great as yours; but e^er shall this house and 
this heart be open to a poor returning repentant sinner. The 
sooner she returns from her transgressions, the more welcome 
shall she be to me. For the first time the very best may err; 
art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charms. The first 
fault is the child of simplicity, but every other the offspring of 
guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart 
and this house, though stained with ten thousand vices. I will 
again hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly 
on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring 
hither my Bible and my staff: I will pursue her, wherever she 
is ; and though I cannot save her from shame, I may preheat 
the continuance of iniquity.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a lost Child to Virtue 

Though the child could not describe the gentleman’s person 
who handed his sister into the postchaise, yet my suspicions 
fell entirely upon our young landlord, whose character for such 
intrigues was but too well known. I therefore directed my 
steps towards Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, and, 
if possible, to bring back my daughter : but before I had reached 
his seat, I was met by one of my parishioners, who said he saw 
a young lady, resembling my daughter, in a postchaise with a 
gentleman, whom by the description, I could only guess to be 
Mr. Burchell, and that they'drove very fast. This information, 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


75 

however, did by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the 
young ’Squire’s and though it was yet early, insisted upon see¬ 
ing him immediately. He soon appeared with the most open, 
familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter’s 
elopement, protesting upon his honor that he was quite a 
stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former suspi¬ 
cions, and could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who I recol¬ 
lected had of late several private conferences with her: but 
the appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt 
his villany, who averred, that he and my daughter were actually 
gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there was 
a great deal of company. Being driven to that state of mind 
in whicn we are more ready to act precipitately than tc reason 
right, I never debated with myself, whether these accounts 
might not have been given by persons purposely placed in my 
way to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and her 
fancied deluder thither. I walked along with earnestness, and 
inquired of several by the way; but received no accounts, till, 
entering the town, I was met by a person on horseback, whom 
I remembered to have seen at the ’Squire’s, and he assured me, 
that if I followed them to the races, which were but thirty miles 
farther, I might depend upon overtaking them ; for he had 
seen them dance there the night before, and the whole assem¬ 
bly seemed charmed with my daughter’s performance. Early 
the next day, I walked forward to the races, and about four in 
the afternoon I came upon the course. The company made a 
very brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit, 
that of pleasure : how different from mine, that of reclaiming a 
lost child to virtue ! I thought I perceived Mr. Burchell at 
some distance from me ; but as if he dreaded an interview, upon 
my approaching him, he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him 
no more. I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to 
continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an 
innocent family, who wanted my assistance. But the agitations 
of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a 
fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I came off the 
course. This was another unexpected stroke, as I was more 
than seventy miles distant from home : however, I retired to a 
little alehouse by the roadside, and in this place, the usual re¬ 
treat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down patiently to 
wait the issue of my disorder. I languished here for nearly 
three weeks ; but at last my constitution prevailed, though I 
was unprovided with money to defray the expenses of my enter¬ 
tainment. It is possible the anxiety from this last circumstance 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


76 

alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied 
by a traveller, who stopped to take a cursory refreshment. 
This person was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in 
St. Paul’s Church Yard, who has written so many little books 
for children; he called himself their friend; but he was the 
friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted, but he was 
in haste to be gone ; for he was ever on business of the utmost 
importance, and was at that time actually compiling materials 
for the history of one Mr. Thomas Tripp. I immediately recol¬ 
lected this good-natured man’s red pimpled face ; for he had 
published for me against the Deuterogamists of the age, and 
from him I borrowed a few pieces to be paid at my ^return. 
Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I resolved 
to return home by easy journeys of ten miles a day. My health 
and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I now con¬ 
demned that pride which had made me refractory to the hand 
of correction. Man little knows what calamities are beyond 
his patience to bear, till he tries them : as in ascending the 
heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every step 
we rise shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden dis¬ 
appointment ; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure, 
though the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and 
gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, 
finds, as we descend, something to flatter and to please. Still, 
as we approach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the 
mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation. 

I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, 
when I perceived what appeared at a distance like a wagon, 
which I was resolved to overtake ; but when I came up with it, 
found it to be a strolling company’s cart, that was carrying 
their scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next village, 
where they were to exhibit. The cart was attended only by 
the person who drove it, and one of the company, as the rest 
of the players were to follow the ensuing day. “ Good com¬ 
pany upon the road,” says the proverb, “ is the shortest cut.” 
I therefore entered into conversation with the poor player ; and 
as I once had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted upon 
such topies with my usual freedom : but as I was pretty much 
unacquainted with the present state of the stage, I demanded 
who were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who the 
Drydens and Otways of the day ?—“ I fancy, sir,” cried the 
player, “ few of our modern dramatists would think themselves 
much honored by being compared to the writers you mention. 
Dryden’s and Rowe’s manner, sir, are quite out of fashion; 


VICAR OF tVAJtrFF/FLD. 


11 

Gtrr taste has gone back a whole century; Fletcher, Ben 
Jonson, and all the plays of Shakspeare, are the only things 
that go down.”—“ How,” cried I, “ is it possible the present 
age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete 
humor, those over-charged characters, which abound in the 
works you mention ? ”—“ Sir,” returned my companion, “ the 
public think nothing about dialect, or humor, or character, for 
that is none of their business ; they only go to be amused, and 
find themselves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, 
under the sanction of Jonson’s or Shakspeare’s name.”—“So 
then, I suppose,” cried I, “ that our modern dramatists are 
rather imitators of Shakspeare than of nature.”—“ To say the 
truth,” return my companion, “ I don’t know that they imitate 
anything at all; nor indeed does the public require it of them : 
it is not the composition of the piece, but the number of starts 
and attitudes that may be introduced into it, that elicits ap¬ 
plause. I have known a piece with not one jest in the whole, 
shrugged into popularity, and another saved by the poet’s 
throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Congreve 
and Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present taste : 
our moderp dialect is much more natural.” 

By this time the equipage of the strolling company was 
arrived at the village, which, it seems, had been apprised of 
our approach, and was come out to gaze at us ; for my com¬ 
panion observed, that strollers always have more spectators 
without doors than within. I did not consider the impropriety 
of my being in such company, till I saw a mob gather about 
me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the first 
alehouse that offered, and being shown into the common 
room, was accosted by a very well dressed gentleman, who 
demanded whether I was the real chaplain of the company, or 
whether it was only to be my masquerade character in the play. 
Upon my informing him of the truth, and that I did not belong 
in any sort to the company, he was condescending enough to 
desire me and the playe'r to partake in a bowl of punch, over 
which he discussed modern politics with great earnestness and 
interest. I set him down in my own mind for nothing less than 
a parliament-man at least; but was almost confirmed in my 
conjectures, when upon asking what there was in the house for 
supper, he insisted that the player and I should sup with him 
at his house : with which request, after some entreaties, we 
were prevailed on to comply. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


7 s 


CHAPTER XIX. 


The description of a Person discontented with the present Government and apprehefl’ 
sive of the loss of our Liberties. 


’The house where we were to be entertained lying at a small 
distance from the village, our inviter observed, that as the 
coach was not ready, he would conduct us on foot; and we 
soon arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions I had 
seen in that part of the country. The apartment into which 
we were shown was perfectly elegant and modern ; he went to 
give orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed 
that we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned ; 
an elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies in dis- 
habile were introduced, and the conversation began with some 
sprightliness. Politics, however, was the object on which our 
entertainer chiefly expatiated ; for he asserted that liberty was 
at once his boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed, 
he asked me if I had seen the last Monitor ? to which replying 
in the negative, “ What, nor the Auditor, I suppose ? ” cried he. 
“ Neither, sir,” returned I. “ That’s strange, very strange,” 
replied my entertainer. “ Now I read all the politics that come 
out. The Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the Chronicle, the 
London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the seventeen Maga¬ 
zines and the two Reviews ; and though they hate each other, 
I love them all. Liberty, sir, liberty, is the Briton’s boast, 
and by all my coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians.” 
—“ Then it is to be hoped,” cried I, “ you reverence the king.” 
—“ Yes,” returned my entertainer, “ when he does what we 
would have him ; but if he goes on as he has done of late, I’ll 
never trouble myself more with his matters. I say nothing. I 
think, only, I could have directed some things better. I don r t 
think there has been a sufficient number of advisers : he should 
advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then 
we should have things done in another guess manner.” 

“ I wish,” cried I, “ that such intruding advisers were fixed 
in the pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist 
the weaker side of our constitution, that sacred power which 
has for some years been every day declining, and losing its 
due share of influence in the state. But these ignorants still 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


79 

continue the same cry of liberty; and if they have any weight, 
basely throw it into the subsiding scale.” 

“ How,” cried one of the ladies, “ do I live to see one so 
base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of 
tyrants? Liberty, that sacred gift of Heaven, that glorious 
privilege of Britons ? ” 

“ Can it be possible,” cried our entertainer, “ that there 
should be any found at present advocates for slavery ? Any 
who are for meanly giving up the privilege of Britons ? Can 
any, sir, be so abject ? ” 

“ No, sir,” replied I, “ I am for liberty, that attribute of 
God! Glorious liberty! that theme of modern declamation. 
I would have all men kings. I would be a king myself. We 
have all naturally an equal right to the throne : we are all 
originally equal. This is my opinion, and was once the opinion 
of a set of honest men who were called Levellers. They tried 
to erect themselves into a community where all would be 
equally free. But, alas ! it would never answer; for there 
were some among them stronger, and some more cunning than 
others, and these became masters of the rest; for as sure as 
your groom rides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal 
than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger and 
stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since then 
it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born to 
command, and others to obey, the question is, as there * must 
be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same house 
with us, or in the same village, or still farther off, in the me¬ 
tropolis. Now, sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the 
face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me, the 
better pleased am I. The generality of mankind also are of 
my way of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, 
whose election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and 
puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the greatest number 
of people. Now the great, who were tyrants themselves before 
the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power 
raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest or. 
the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, there - 
fore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible ; because 
whatever they take from that, is naturally restored to them¬ 
selves ; and all they have to do in the state, is to underm'ine 
the single tyrant, by which they resume their primeval autho' ity. 
Now the state may be so circumstanced, or its laws may 1-e so 
disposed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all to cor.spire 
in carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. If or in 


P’TCAR OP WAKEFIELD. 

the first place, if the circumstances of our state be such as to 
favor the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still 
more rich, this will increase their ambition. An accumulation 
of wealth, however, must necessarily be the consequence, when 
as at present more riches flow in from external commerce, than 
arise from internal industry; for external commerce can only 
be managed to advantage by the rich, and they have also at 
the same time all the emoluments arising from internal industry; 
so that the rich, with us, have two sources of wealth, whereas 
the poor have but one. For this reason, wealth, in all com¬ 
mercial states, is found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto 
in time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of 
this country may contribute to the accumulation of wealth; as 
when, by their means, the natural ties that bind the rich and 
poor together are broken, and it is ordained, that the rich shall 
only marry with the rich ; .or when the learned are held un¬ 
qualified to serve their country as counsellors, merely from a 
defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of a 
wise man’s ambition; by these means, I say, and such means 
as these, riches will accumulate. Now, the possessor of ac¬ 
cumulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries and 
pleasures of life, has no other method to employ the superfluity 
of his fortune but in purchasing power. That is, differently 
speaking, in making dependents, by purchasing the liberty of 
the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the 
mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each 
very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of the 
poorest of the people ; and the polity abounding in accumulated 
wealth, may be compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with 
a vortex of its own. Those, however, who are willing to move 
in a great man’s vortex, are only such as must be slaves, the 
rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose education are 
adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty except 
the name. But there must still be a large number of the people 
without the sphere of the opulent man’s influence, namely, that 
order of men which subsists between the vety rich and the 
very rabble ; those men who are possessed of* too large for¬ 
tunes to submit to the neighboring man in power, and yet are 
too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle 
order of mankind are generally to be found all the arts, wis¬ 
dom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known to be 
the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the people. 
Now it may. happen that this middle order of mankind may 
lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


8k 

drowned in that of the rabble: for if the fortune sufficient for 
qualifying a person at present to give his voice in state affairs 
be ten times less than was judged sufficient upon forming the 
constitution, it is evident that greater numbers of the rabble 
will be thus introduced into the political system, and they ever 
moving in the vortex of the great, will follow where greatness 
shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all that the middle 
order has left, is to preserve the prerogatives and privileges of 
the one principal governor with the most sacred circumspection. 
For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the great 
from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed 
beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town, 
of which the opulent are forming the siege, and of which the 
governor from without is hastening the relief. While the be¬ 
siegers are in dread of an enemy over them, it is but natural 
to offer the townsmen the most specious terms ; to flatter them 
with sounds, and amuse them with privileges; but if they once 
defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will be 
but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then 
expect, may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, 
or Venice, where the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern 
the law. I am then for, and would die for monarchy, sacred 
monarchy; for if there be anything sacred amongst men, it 
must be the anointed Sovereign of his people ; and every 
diminution of his power in war, or in peace, is an infringement 
upon the real liberties of the subject. The sons of liberty, 
patriotism, and Britons, have already done ?nuch; it is to be 
hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever 
doing more. I have known many of these pretended cham¬ 
pions for liberty in my time, yet do I not remember one that 
was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant.” 

My warmth I found had lengthened this harangue beyond 
the rules of good breeding ; but the impatience of my enter¬ 
tainer, who often strove to interrupt it, could be restrained no 
longer. “What,” cried he, “then I have been all this while 
entertaining a jesuit in parson’s clothes! but by all the coal¬ 
mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be Wilkin¬ 
son.” I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for 
the warmth with which I had spoken. “ Pardon ! ” returned 
he, in a fury: “ I think such principles demand ten thousand 
pardons. What ? give up liberty, property, and, the Gazetteer 
says, lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes ! sir, I insist 
upon your marching out of this house immediately, to prevent 
worse consequences : sir, I insist upon it.” I was going to re- 

-6 





i2 


v/car of Wakefield. 


peat my remonstrance ; but just then we heard a footman’s rap 
at the door, and the two ladies cried out, “ As sure as death 
there is our master and mistress come home.” It seems my en¬ 
tertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master’s 
absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a while the 
gentleman himself: and to say the truth, he talked politics as 
well as most country gentlemen do. But nothing could now 
exceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and his lady 
enter; nor was their surprise at finding such company and 
good cheer less than ours. “ Gentlemen,” cried the real mas¬ 
ter of the house to me and my companion, “ my wife and I are 
your most humble servants; but I protest this is so unexpected 
a favor, that we almost sink under the obligation.” However 
unexpected our company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, 
was still more so to us, and I was struck dumb with the appre¬ 
hensions of my own absurdity, when whom should I next see 
enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was 
formerly designed to be married to my son George, but whose 
match was broken off as already related. As soon as she saw 
me, she flew to my arms with the utmost joy.—“ My dear sir,” 
cried she, “ to what happy accident is it that we owe so unex¬ 
pected a visit ? I am sure my uncle and aunt will be in rap¬ 
tures when they find they have the good Dr. Primrose for their 
guest.” Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady 
very politely stepped up, and welcomed me with the most cor¬ 
dial hospitality. Nor could they forbear smiling, upon being 
informed of the nature of my present visit; but the unfortunate 
butler, whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at 
my intercession forgiven. 

Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now 
insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for some days ; 
and as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind in some 
measure had been formed under my own instructions, joined in 
their entreaties, I complied. That night I was shown to a 
magnificent chamber, and the next morning early Miss Wilmot 
desired to walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in 
the modern manner. After some time spent in pointing out 
the beauties of the place, she inquired with seeming unconcern, 
when last I was heard from my son George ? “ Alas, madam,” 

cried I, “ he has now been nearly three years absent, without 
ever writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know not; 
perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear 
madam, we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were 
once spent by our fireside at Wakefield. My little family are 


vicar or Wakefield 


S3 

how- dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not only 
want but infamy upon us.” The good-natured girl let fall a 
tear at this account; but as I saw her possessed of too much 
sensibility, I forbore a more minute detail of our sufferings. It 
was, however, some consolation to me to find that time had 
made no alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected 
several offers that had been made her since our leaving her 
part of the country. She led me round all the extensive im¬ 
provements of the place, pointing to the several walks and 
arbors, and at the same time catching from every object a hint 
for some new questions relative to my son. In this manner 
we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us in to dinner, 
where we found the manager of the strolling company that I 
mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the 
Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that evening, the part of 
Horatio, by a young gentleman who had never appeared on any 
stage. He seemed to be very warm in the praises of the new 
performer, and averred that he never saw any who bid so fair 
for excellence. Acting, he observed, was not learned in a day ; 
“ but this gentleman,” continued he, “ seems born to tread the 
stage. His voice, his figure, and attitudes, are all admirable. 
We caught him up accidentally in our journey down.” This 
account, in some measure, excited our curiosity, and, at the en¬ 
treaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them 
to the playhouse, which was no other than a barn. As the 
company with which I went was incontestably the chief of the 
place, we were received with the greatest respect, and placed 
in the front seat of the theatre ; where we sat for some time 
with no small impatience to see Ploratio make his appearance. 
The new performer advanced at last; and let parents think of 
my sensations by their own, when I found it was my unfor¬ 
tunate son. He was going to begin, when turning his eyes 
upon the audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and 
stood at once speechless and immovable. The actors behind 
the scene, who ascribed this cause to his natural timidity, at¬ 
tempted to encourage him ; but instead of going on he burst in 
a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don’t know what 
were my feelings on this occasion, for they succeeded with too 
much rapidity for description ; but I was soon awaked from 
this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale, and with 
a trembling voice, desired me to conduct her back to her 
uncle’s. When got home, Mr, Arnold, who was as yet a stran¬ 
ger to our extraordinary behavior, being informed that the 
new performer was my son, sent his coach and an invitation for 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


H 

him : and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon 
the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had 
him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and 
I received him with my usual transport; for I could never 
counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot’s reception was 
mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted 
a studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated : 
she said twenty giddy things that looked like joy, and then 
laughed loud at her own want of meaning. At intervals she 
would take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in the conscious¬ 
ness of irresistible beauty, and often would ask questions 
without giving any manner of attention to the answers. 


< * 

CHAPTER XX. 

The History of a Philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelty, but losing Contentment. 

After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to send 
a couple of her footmen for my son’s baggage, which he at 
first seemed to decline ; but upon her pressing the request, he 
was obliged to inform her, that a stick and a wallet were all the 
movable things upon this earth that he could boast of. “Why, 
ay, my son,” cried I, “ you left me but poor, and poor I find 
you are come back; and yet I make no doubt you have seen a 
great deal of the world.”—“ Yes, sir,” replied my son, “but 
travelling after fortune is not the way to secure her; and, 
indeed, of late 1 have desisted from the pursuit.”—“ I fancy, 
sir,” cried Mrs. Arnold, “ that the account of your adventures 
would be amusing: the first part of them I have often heard 
from my niece, but could the company prevail for the rest, it 
would be an additional obligation.”—“ Madam,” replied my son, 
“ I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing will not be 
half so great as my vanity in repeating them ; and yet in the 
whole narrative I can scarcely promise you one adventure, as 
my account is rather of what I saw than what I did. The first 
misfortune of my life, which you all know, was great ; but 
though it distressed, it could not sink me. No person ever 
had a better knack of hoping than I. The less kind I found 
Fortune at one time, the more I expected from her another, 
and being now at the bottom of her wheel, every new revolu* 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


85 

tion might lift, but could not depress me. I proceeded, there¬ 
fore, towards London, in a fine morning, no way uneasy about 
to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that caroled by the road, 
and comforted myself with reflecting, that London was the 
mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinc¬ 
tion and reward. 

“ Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to deliver 
your letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself 
in little better circumstances than I. My first scheme, you 
know, sir, was to be usher at an academy, and I asked his ad¬ 
vice on the affair. Our cousin received the proposal with a 
true Sardonic grin. Ay, cried he, this is indeed a very pretty 
career that has been chalked out for you. I have been an usher 
at a boarding-school myself; and may I die by an anodyne 
necklace, but I had rather be an under turnkey in Newgate. I 
was up early and late : I was browbeat by the master, hated 
for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, 
and never permitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But 
are you sure you are fit for a school ? Let me examine you a 
little. Have you been bred apprentice to the business ? No. 
Then you won’t do for a school. Can you dress the boy’s 
hair? No. Then you won’t do for a school. Have you had 
the small-pox ? No. Then you won’t do for a school. Can 
you lie three in a bed ? No. Then you will never do for a 
school. Have you got a good stomach ? Yes. Then you 
will by no means do for a school. No, sir, if you are for a gen¬ 
teel easy profession, bind yourself seven years as an apprentice 
to turn a cutler’s wheel; but avoid a school by any means. 
Yet come, continued he, I see you are a lad of spirit and some 
learning, what do you think of commencing author, like me ? 
You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at 
the trade. At present I’ll show you forty very dull fellows 
about town that live by it in opulence; all honest jog-trot men, 
who go on smoothly and dully, and write history and politics, 
and are praised : men, sir, who, had they been bred cobblers, 

! would all their lives have only mended shoes, but never made 
them. 

“ Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed 
to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal ; 
and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua 
mater of Grub Street with reverence. I thought it my glory to 
pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I 
considered the goddess of this region as the parent of excel¬ 
lence ; and however an intercourse with the world might give 



86 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


us good sense, the poverty she entailed I suppose to be the 
nurse of genius ! Big with these reflections, I sat down, and 
finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong 
side, I resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I 
therefore dressed up three paradoxes with some ingenuity. 
They were false indeed, but they were new. The jewels of 
truth have been so often imported by others, that nothing was 
left for me to import but some splendid things that at a distance 
looked every bit as well. Witness, you powers, what fancied 
importance sat perched upon my quill while I was writing! 
The whole learned world, I made no doubt, would rise to op¬ 
pose my systems ; but then I was prepared to oppose the whole 
learned world. Like the porcupine, I sat self-collected, with a 
quill pointed against every opposer.” 

“ Well said, my boy,” cried I, “ and what subject did you 
treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over the importance of 
monogamy. But I interrupt; go on: you published your 
paradoxes ; well, and what did the learned world say to your 
paradoxes ? ” 

“Sir,” replied my son, “the learned world said nothing to 
my paradoxes; nothing at all, sir. Every man of them was 
employed in praising his friends and himself, or condemning 
his enemies: and unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered 
the crudest mortification, neglect. 

“ As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate 
of my paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, 
placed himself in the box before me, and after some prelim¬ 
inary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle 
of proposals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was 
going to give the world of Propertius with notes. This demand 
necessarily produced a reply that I had no money; and that con¬ 
cession led him to inquire into the nature of my expectations. 
Finding that my expectations were just as good as my purse, I 
see, cried he, you are unacquainted with the town; I’ll teach you 
a part of it. Look at these proposals,—upon these very pro¬ 
posals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve years. The 
moment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Creolean arrives 
from Jamaica, or a dowager from her country seat, I strike for a 
subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, and then 
pour in my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily 
the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication fee. If 
they let me have.that, I smite them once more for engraving 
them coat of arms at the top. Thus, continued he, I live by 
Vanity, and laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


*7 

Well known: I should be glad to borrow your face a bit: a 
nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy ; my face 
is familiar to his porter; but if you bring this copy of verses, 
my life for it you succeed, and we divide the spoil” 

“ Bless us/George,” cried I, “and is this the employment 
of poets now ! Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to 
beggary ! Can they so far disgrace their calling as to make a 
vile traffic of praise for bread ? ” 

“ O no, sir,” returned he, “ a true poet can never be so 
base ; for wherever there is genius, there is pride. The crea¬ 
tures I now describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real 
poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, so he is equally a 
coward to contempt; and none but those who are unworthy 
protection, condescend to solicit it. 

“ Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and 
yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, 
I was now obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. 
But I was unqualified for a profession where mere industry 
alone was to insure success. I could not suppress my lurking 
passion for applause; but usually consumed that time in 
efforts after excellence which takes up but little room, when it 
should have been more advantageously employed in the diffu¬ 
sive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would 
therefore come forth in the midst of periodical publications, un¬ 
noticed and unknown. The public were more importantly em¬ 
ployed than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the 
harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to 
oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays upon 
liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog ; while 
Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropes all 
wrote better, because they wrote faster than I. 

“ Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but dis¬ 
appointed authors, like myself, who praised, deplored, and 
despised each other. The satisfaction we found in every cele^ 
brated writer’s attempts, was inversely as their merits. I found 
that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate 
paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I 
could neither read nor write with satisfaction ; for excellence 
in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade. 

“ In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day 
sitting on a bench in St. James’s Park, a young gentleman of 
distinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the 
university, approached me. We saluted each other with some 
hesitation ; he almost ashamed of being known to one who 


88 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. 
But my suspicions soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at 
the bottom a very good-natured fellow.” 

“ What did you say, George ? ” interrupted I .—" Thornhill, 
was not that his name ? It can certainly be no other than my 
T tandlord.”—“ Bless me,” cried Mrs. Arnold, “ is Mr. Thornhill 
so near a neighbor of yours ? He has long been a friend in 
our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly.” 

“ My friend’s first care,” continued my son, “ was to alter 
my appearance by a very fine suit of his own clothes, and then 
I was admitted to his table, upon the footing of half-friend, 
*ialf-underling. My business was to attend him at auctions, to 
put him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the left 
hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and to assist at 
tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when we had a mind for a 
frolic. Besides this, I had twenty other little employments in 
the family. I was to do many small things without bidding : 
to carry the corkscrew ; to stand godfather to all the butler’s 
Children ; to sing when I was bid; to be never out of humor ; 
always to be humble ; and, if I could, to be very happy. 

“ In this honorable post, however, I was not without a rival. 
A captain of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, 
opposed me in my patron’s affections. His mother had been 
laundress to a man of quality, and thus he early acquired a 
taste for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made it 
The study of his life to be acquainted with lords, though he 
•was dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found 
many of them who were as dull as himself, that permitted his 
assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he practiced it with the 
easiest address .imaginable ; but it came awkward and stiff 
from me : and as every day my' patron’s desire for flattery 
increased, so every hour being better acquainted with his de¬ 
fects, I became more unwilling to give it. Thus I was once 
more fairly going to give up the field to the captain, when my 
friend found occasion for my assistance. This was nothing 
less than to fight a duel for him, with a gentleman whose sister 
it was pretended he had used ill. I readily complied with his 
request, and though I see you are displeased with my conduct, 
yet it was a debt indispensably due to friendship I could not 
refuse. I undertook the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and 
soon after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was only a 
woman of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper, This 
piece of service was repaid with the warmest professions of 
gratitude ; but as my friend w^§ town in a few days, 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


89 

he knew no other method of serving me, but by recommending 
me to his uncle Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman 
of great distinction who enjoyed a post under the government. 
When he was gone, my first care was to carry his recommenda¬ 
tory letter to his uncle, a man whose character for every virtue 
was universal, yet just. I was received by his servants with 
the most hospitable smiles ; for the looks of the domestic ever 
transmit their master’s benevolence. Being shown into a grand 
apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I delivered my 
message and letter, which he read, and after pausing some 
minutes, * Pray, sir/ cried he, ‘ inform me what you have done 
for my kinsman to deserve this warm recommendation : but I 
suppose, sir, I guess your merits : you have fought for him; 
and so you would expect a reward from me for being the in¬ 
strument of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present 
refusal may be some punishment for your guilt, but still more 
that it may be some inducement to your repentance.’—The 
severity of this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it was 
just. My whole expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter 
to the great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost 
ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly peti¬ 
tion, I found it no easy matter to gain admittance. However, 
after bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was 
at last shown into a spacious apartment, my letter being pre¬ 
viously sent up for his lordship’s inspection. During this 
anxious interval I had full time to look around me. Every 
thing was grand and of happy contrivance ; the paintings, the 
furniture, the gildings petrified me with awe, and raised my 
idea of the owner. Ah, thought I to myself, how very great 
must the possessor of these things be, who carries in his head 
the business of the state, and whose house displays half the 
wealth of a kingdom : sure his genius must be unfathomable !— 
During these awful reflections, I heard a step coming heavily 
forward. Ah, this is the great man himself ! No, it was only 
a chamber-maid.. Another foot was heard soon after. This 
must be he ! No, it was only the great man’s valet de chambre . 
At last his lordship actually made his appearance. Are you, 
cried he, the bearer of this here letter ? I answered with a 
bow. I learn by this, continued he, as how that— But just at 
that instant a servant delivered him a card, and without taking 
further notice, he went out of the room, and left me to digest 
my own happiness at leisure : I saw no more of him, till told 
by a footman that his lordship was going to his coach at the 
dQor. Down I immediately followed and joined my voice tQ 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


90 

that of three or four more, who came, like me, to petition for 
favors. His lordship, however, went too fast for us, and was 
gaining his chariot door with large strides, when I halloed out 
to know if I was to have any reply. He was by this time got 
in, and muttered an answer, half of which only I heard, the other 
half was lost in the rattling of his chariot wheels. I stood for 
some time with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one 
ihat was listening to catch the glorious sounds, till looking 
round me, I found myself alone at his lordship’s gate. 

“My patience,” continued-my son, “was now quite ex¬ 
hausted : stung with the thousand indignities I had met with, I 
was willing to cast myself away, and only wanted the gulf to 
receive me. I regarded myself as one of those vile things that 
nature designed should be thrown by into her lumber-ioom, 
there to perish in obscurity. I had still, however, half a 
guinea left, and of that I thought fortune herself should not 
deprive me ; but in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to 
go instantly and spend it while I had it, and then trust to 
occurrences for the rest. As I was going along with this 
resolution it happened that Mr. Crispe’s office seemed invit¬ 
ingly open to give me a welcome reception. In this office, Mr. 
Crispe kindly offers all his majesty’s subjects a generous 
promise of 30/. a year, for which promise all they give in return 
is their liberty for life, and permission to let him transport 
them to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a place 
where I could lose my fears in desperation, and entered this 
cell (for it had the appearance of one) with the devotion of a 
monastic. Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in 
circumstances like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, 
presenting a true epitome of English impatience. Each un- 
tractable soul at variance with Fortune, wreaked her injuries on 
their own hearts : but Mr. Crispe at last came down, and all 
our murmurs were hushed. He deigned to regard me with an 
air of peculiar approbation, and indeed lie was the first man 
who for a month past had talked to me with smiles. After a 
few questions, he paused awhile upon the properest means of 
providing for me, and slapping his forehead as if he had found 
it, assured me, that there was at that time an embassy talked 
of from the Synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw Indians, 
and that he would use his interest to get me made secretary. 
I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet his 
promise gave me pleasure, there was something so magnificent 
in the sound. I fairly therefore divided my half-guinea, one- 
half of whigh went to be added to his thirty pounds, and with 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


9 * 

the other half I resolved to go to the next tavern, to be theit 
Xicrc happy than he. 

“ As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at tfec- 
door by the captain of a ship, with whom I had formerly some 
htlle acquaintance, and he agreed to be my companion over a 
bowl of punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my cir¬ 
cumstances, he assured me that I was upon the very point of 
ruin, in listening to the office keeper’s promises : for that he 
only designed to sell me to the plantations. But, continued 
he, I fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily 
put into a genteel way of bread Take my advice. My ship 
sails to morrow for Amsterdam. What if you go in her as 
passenger ? The moment you land, all you have to do is to 
teach the Dutchmen English-, and I'll warrant you'll get pupils 
and money enough. I suppose you understand fikiglish, added 
he, by this time, or the deuce is in it. I confidently assured 
hi:n of that; but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be 
willing to learn English. He affirmed with an oath that they 
were fond of it to distraction ; and upon that affirmation I 
agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next day to teach 
the Dutch English in Holland. The wind was fair, our voyage 
short, and after having paid my passage with half my mova¬ 
bles, I found myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger in one 
of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was 
unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. I ad¬ 
dressed myself, therefore, to two or three I met, whose appear¬ 
ance seemed most promising; but it was impossible to make 
ourselves mutually understood. It was not till this very mo¬ 
ment I recollected, that in order to teach the Dutchmen Eng¬ 
lish, it was necessary that they should first teach me Dutch. 
How I came to overlook so obvious an objection is tome amaz¬ 
ing ; but certain it is I overlooked it. 

“This scheme, thus blown up, I had some thoughts of 
fairly shipping back to England again ; but falling into com¬ 
pany with an Irish student who was returning from Louvain, 
our subject turning upon topics of literature (for by the way it 
may be observed, that I always forgot the meanness of my cir¬ 
cumstances when I could converse upon such subjects,) from 
him I learned that there were not two men in his whole univer¬ 
sity who understood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly re¬ 
solved to travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek ; 
and in this design I was heartened by my brother student, who 
threw out some hints that a fortune might be got by it. 

“ l set boldly forward the next morning. Every day les- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


9 7 

sened the burden of my movables, like FEsop and his basket 
of bread; for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I 
travelled on. When I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to 
go sneaking to the lower professors, but openly tendered my 
talents to the principal himself. I went, had admittance, and 
offered him my service as a master of the Greek language, 
which I had been told was a desideratum in his university. 
The principal seemed at first to doubt my abilities; but of 
these I offered to convince him by turning a part of any Greek 
author he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly 
earnest in my proposal, he addressed me thus: You see me, 
young man ; I never learned Greek, and I don’t find that I 
have ever missed it, I have had a doctor’s cap and gown 
without Greek ; I have ten thousand florins a year without 
Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek; and in short, continued 
he, as I don’t know Greek, I do not believe there is any good 
in it. 

“ I was now too far from home to think of returning; so I 
resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with 
a tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amusement 
into a present means of subsistence. I passed among the 
harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French 
as were poor enough to be very merry, for I ever found them 
sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached 
a peasant’s house towards nightfall, I played one of my most 
merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but 
subsistence for the next day. I once or twice attempted to 
play for people of fashion; but they always thought my per¬ 
formance odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. 
This was to me the more extraordinary, as whenever I used in 
better days to play for company, when playing was my amuse¬ 
ment, my music never failed to throw them into raptures, and 
the ladies especially; but as it was now my only means, it 
was received with contempt—a proof how ready the world is 
to underrate those talents by which a man is supported. 

“ In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but 
just to look about me, and then to go forward. The people 
of Paris are much fonder of strangers that have money than of 
those that have wit. As I could not boast much of either, I 
was no great favorite. After walking about the town four or 
five days and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I was 
preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when passing 
through one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but 
pur cousin, to whom you first recommended me. This meeting 


vicar of Wakefield. 


Was very agreeable to me, ancl I believe not displeasing to him. 
He inquired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and in¬ 
formed me of his own business there, which was to collect pic¬ 
tures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds for a gen¬ 
tleman in London, who had just stepped into taste and a large 
fortune. I was the more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched 
upon for this office, as he himself had often assured me he knew 
nothing of the matter. Upon asking how he had been taught 
the art of a cognoscente so very suddenly, he assured me that 
nothing was more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict 
adherence to two rules; the one, always to observe the picture 
might have been better if the painter had taken more pains ; and 
the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino. But, says he, 
as I once taught you how to be an author in London, IT 1 now 
undertake to instruct you in the art of picture-buying at Paris. 

“ With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living, and 
now all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his 
lodgings, improved my dress by his assistance, and after some 
time accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the English 
gentry were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little 
surprised at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who 
referred themselves to his judgment upon every picture or 
medal, as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very 
good use of my assistance upon these occasions ; for when asked 
his opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, 
shrug, look wise, return, and assure the company that he could 
give no opinion upon an affair of so much importance. Yet 
there was sometimes an occasion for a more supported assur¬ 
ance. I remember to have seen him, after giving his opinion 
that the coloring of a picture was not mellow enough, very de- 
libertately take a brush with brown varnish, that was accidently 
lying by, and rub it over the piece with great composure before 
all the company and then ask if he had not improved the 
tints. 

“ When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me 
strongly recommended to several men of distinction, as a per¬ 
son very proper for a travelling tutor; and after some time I 
was employed in that capacity by a gentleman who brought his 
ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour through 
Europe. I was to be the young gentleman’s governor, but with 
a proviso that he should always be permitted to govern him¬ 
self. My pupil in fact understood the art of guiding in money 
concerns much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of 
about two hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in 


VICAR OF WA RE FI ELD. 


9 * 

the West Indies: and his guardians, to qualify him for th6 
management of it, had bound him apprentice to an attorney. 
Thus avarice was his prevailing passion ; all his questions on 
the road were, how money might be saved; which was the 
least expensive course to travel; whether anything could be 
bought that would turn to account when disposed of again in 
London ? Such curiosities on the way as could be seen for 
nothing, he was ready enough to look at; but if the sight of 
them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had been 
told they were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill that he 
would not observe how amazingly expensive travelling was, and 
all this though he was not yet twenty-one. When arrived at 
Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the port and shipping, 
he inquired the expense of the passage by sea home to I ig- 
land. This he was informed was but a trifle compared to his 
returning by land; he was therefore unable to withstand the 
temptation ; so paying me the small part of my salary that was 
due, he took leave, and embarked with only one attendant for 
London. 

“ I now therefore was ’ left once more upon the world at 
large; but then it was a thing that I was used to. However, 
my skill in music could avail me nothing in a country where 
every peasant was a better musician than I ; but by this time 
I had acquired another talent which answered my purpose as 
well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign uni¬ 
versities and convents there are, upon certain days, philosoph¬ 
ical theses maintained against every adventitious disputant; 
for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can 
claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night 
In this manner, therefore, I fought my way towards England, 
walked along from city to city, examined mankind more nearly, 
and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the picture. My 
remarks, however, are but few ; I found that monarchy was the 
best government for the poor to live in, and commonwealths 
for the rich. I found that riches in general were in every coun¬ 
try another name for freedom ; and that no man is so fond of 
liberty himself, as not to be desirous of subjecting the will of 
some individuals in society to his own. 

“ Upon my arrival in England I resolvea to pay my respects 
first to you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expe¬ 
dition that was going forward ; but on my journey down my re¬ 
solutions were changed, by meeting an old acquaintance, who I 
found belonged to a company of comedians that were going to 
make a summer campaign in the country. The company 


P/CAE OR iraeefielD. 


>4 

seemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They 
all, however, apprised me of the importance of the task at 
which I aimed; that the public was a many-headed mon¬ 
ster, and that only such as had very good heads could please 
it j that acting was not to be learned in a day, and that 
without some traditional shrugs, which had been on the stage, 
and only on the stage, these hundred years, I could never pre¬ 
tend to please. The next difficulty was in fitting me with 
parts, as almost every character was in keeping.—I was driven 
for some time from one character to another, till at last Horatio 
was fixed upon, which the presence of the present company has 
happily hindered me from acting.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

The short continuance of Friendship amongst the Vicious, which is coeval only with 
mutual Satisfaction. 

My son’s account was too long to be delivered at once ; the 
first part of it was begun that night, and he was concluding the 
rest after dinner the next day, when the appearance of Mr. 
Thornhill’s equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in 
the general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become my 
friend in the family, informed me with a whisper, that the 
’Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and 
that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. 
Upon Mr. Thornhill’s entering, he seemed, at seeing my son 
and me, to start back ; but I readily imputed that to surprise, 
and not displeasure. However, upon our advancing to salute 
him, he returned our greeting with the most apparent candor ; 
and after a short time his presence served only to increase the 
general good humor. 

After tea he called me aside to inquire after my daughter ; 
but upon my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccessful, 
he seemed greatly surprised ; adding, that he had been since 
frequently at my house in order to comfort the rest of my family, 
whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I had com¬ 
municated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son ; and upon 
rny replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved' 
my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keeg 



VICAR OP IVAICEFIELD. 


96 

it a secret: “ For at best,” cried he, “ it is but divulging one’s 
own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty 
we all imagine.” We were here interrupted by a servant, who 
came to ask the ’Squire in, to stand up at country dances, so 
that he left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to 
take in my concerns. His addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot, 
were too obvious to be mistaken : and yet she seemed not per¬ 
fectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will 
of her aunt than from real inclination. I had even the satis¬ 
faction to see her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate 
son, which the other could neither extort by his fortune nor 
assiduity. Mr. Thornhill’s seeming composure, however, not 
a little surprised me : we had now continued here a week at the 
pressing instances of Mr. Arnold : but each day the more ten¬ 
derness Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thornhill’s friend¬ 
ship seemed proportionably to increase for him. 

He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using 
his interest to serve the family: but now his generosity was not 
confined to promises alone. The morning I designed for my 
departure, Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real pleas¬ 
ure, to inform me of a piece of service he had done for his 
friend George. This was nothing less than his having procured 
him an ensign’s commission in one of the regiments that 
was going to the West Indies, for which he had promised but 
one hundred pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get 
an abatement of the other two. “ As for this trifling piece of 
service,” continued the young gentleman, “ I desire no other 
reward but the pleasure of having served my friend ; and as 
for the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it 
yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your 
leisure.” This was a favor we wanted words to express our 
sense of : I readily therefore gave my bond for the money, and 
testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to pay. 

George was to depart for town the next day to secure his 
commission, in pursuance of his generous patron’s directions, 
who judged it highly expedient to use dispatch, lest in the 
meantime another should step in with more advantageous pro¬ 
posals. The next morning therefore our young soldier was early 
prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person among 
us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dan¬ 
gers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress— 
for Miss Wilmot actually loved him—he was leaving behind, 
any way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the 
rest of the company, I gave him all I had, my blessing. “ And 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


97 

now, my boy/’ cried I, “ thou art going to fight for thy country, 
remember how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred 
king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, 
and imkatehim in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfoitune 
to die with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, and if you fall, though 
distant, exposed, and unwept by those that love you, the most 
precious tears are those with which Heaven bedews the unburied 
head of a soldier. ,, 

The next morning I took leave of the good family, that had 
been kind enough to entertain me so long, not without several 
expressions of gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. 
I .left them in the enjoyment of all that happiness which afflu¬ 
ence and good breeding procure, and returned towards home, 
despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but sending a 
sigh to Heaven to spare and to forgive her. I was now come 
within about twenty miles of home, having hired a horse to carry 
me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myself with the 
hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the 
night coming on I put up at a little public-house by the road side, 
and asked for the landlord’s company over a pint of wine. We 
sat beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room in the 
house, and chatted on politics and the news of the country. 
We happened, among other topics, to talk of young ’Squire 
Thornhill, who, the host assured me, was hated as much as his 
uncle Sir William, who sometimes came down to the country, 
was loved. He went on to observe that he made it his whole 
study to betray the daughters of such as received him to their 
houses, and after a fortnight or three week’s possession, turned 
them out unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As we 
continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who had been 
out to get change, returned, and perceiving'that her husband 
was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she 
asked him in an angry tone, what ho did there ? to which he 
only replied in an ironical way, by drinking her health. “ Mr. 
Symmonds,” cried she, “you use me very ill, and I’ll bear it no 
longer. Here three parts of the business is left for me to do, 
and the fourth left unfinished ; while you do nothing but soak 
with the guests all day long: whereas if a spoonful of liquor 
were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop.” I now 
found what she would be at, and immediately poured her out a 
glass, which she received with a curtsey, and drinking towards 
my good health, “ Sir,” resumed she, “ it is not so much for 
the value of the liquor I am angry, but one cannot help it when 
Jhe house is going out of the windows. If the customers or 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


98 

guests are to be dunned, all the burden lies upon* my back j 
he’d as lief eat that glass as budge after them himself. There, 
now, above stairs, we have a young woman who has come to take 
up her lodgings here, and I don’t believe she has got any money 
by her over civility. I am certain she is very slow of payment, 
and I wish she were put in mind of it.”—“ What signifies 
minding her,” cried the host, “ if she be slow she is sure.”—“ I 
don’t know that,” replied the wife ; “but I know that I am sure 
she has been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the 
cross of her mcney.”—“ I suppose, my dear,” cried he, “ we 
shall have it all in a lump.”—“ In a lump !” cried the other, “ I 
hope we may get it any way ; and that I -am resolved we will 
this very night, or out she tramps, bag and baggage.”—“ Con¬ 
sider, my dear,” cried the husband, “she is a gentlewoman, and 
deserves more respect.”—“As for the matter of that,” returned 
the hostess,“ gentle or simple,out she shall pack with a sassarara. 
Gentry may be good things where they take ; but for my part, I 
never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow.”—Thus 
saying, she ran up a narrow flight of stairs that went from the 
kitchen to a room overhead : and I soon perceived, by the 
loudness of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, that 
no money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her 
remonstrances very distinctly; “ Out I say; pack out this 
moment ! tramp, thou infamous strumpet, or I’ll give thee a 
mark thou won’t be the better for these three months. What! 
you trumpery, to come and take up an honest house without 
cross or coin to bless yourself with ; come along, I say.”—“ O, 
dear madam,” cried the stranger, “ pity me, pity a poor aban¬ 
doned creature for one night, and death will soon do the rest.” 
•—I instantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia ; I 
flew to her rescue, while the woman was dragging her along 
by the hair, and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. 
—“ Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treas¬ 
ure, to your poor old father’s bosom ! Though the vicious 
forsake thee, there is yet one in the world that will never for¬ 
sake thee ; though thou hadst ten thousand crimes to answer 
for, he will forget them all.”—“O my own dear ”—for minutes 
she could say no more—“ my own dearest, good papa ! could 
angels be kinder ! how do I deserve so much !—The villain, I 
hate him and myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You 
can’t forgive me, I know you cannot.”—“ Yes, my child, from my 
heart I do forgive thee! Only repent, and we both shall yet 
be happy. We shall see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia ? ” 
—- “ Ah 1 never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched life must 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


99 


be infamy abroad, and shame at home. But, alas ! papa, you 
look much paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as 
I am give you so much uneasiness ? Surely you have too much 
wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself.”— 
“ Our wisdom, young woman,” replied I.—“ Ah, why so cold a 
name, papa ? ” cried she. “ This is the first time you ever 
called me by so cold a name.” “ I ask pardon, my darling,” re¬ 
turned I; “ but I was going to observe, that wisdom makes but 
a slow defence against trouble, though at last a sure one.” The 
landlady now returned to know if we did not choose a more 
genteel apartment; to which assenting, we were shown into a 
room where we could converse more freely. After we had 
talked ourselves into some degree of tranquillity, I could not 
avoid desiring some account of the gradations that led to her 
present wretched situation. “That villain, sir,” said she, 
“from the first day of our meeting made me honorable though 
private proposals.” 

“ Villain, indeed ! ” cried I : “ and yet it in some measure 
surprises me, how a person of Mr. Burchell’s good sense and 
seeming honor could be guilty of such deliberate baseness, and 
thus step into a family to undo it.” 

“ My dear papa,” returned my daughter, “ you labor under a 
strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive me ; 
instead of that, he took every opportunity of privately admonish¬ 
ing me against the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who I now find 
was even worse than he represented him.” “ Mr. Thornhill,” 
interrupted I, “ can it be ? ”—“ Yes, sir,” returned she ; “ it was 
Mr. Thornhill who seduced me; who employed the two ladies, 
as he called them, but who in fact were abandoned women of 
the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. 
Their artifices, you may remember, would have certainly 
succeeded, but for Mr. Burchell’s letter, who directed those re¬ 
proaches at them, which we all applied to ourselves. How he 
came to have so much influence as to defeat their intentions, 
still remains a secret to me; but I am convinced he was ever 
our warmest, sincerest friend.” 

“You amaze me, my dear,” cried I; “but now I find my 
first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill's baseness were too well 
grounded : but he can triumph in security, for he is rich and 
we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it was no small temp¬ 
tation that could thus obliterate all the impressions of such an 
education and so virtuous a disposition as thine.” 

“Indeed, sir,” replied she, “he owes all his triumph to the 
desire I had of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew 


3 00 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


that the ceremony of our marriage, which was privately per¬ 
formed by a popish priest, was no way binding, and that I had 
nothing to trust to but his honor.”—“What! ’’.interrupted I, 
“ and were you indeed married by a priest, and in orders ? ”— 
“ Indeed, sir, we were,” replied she, “ though we were both 
sworn to conceal his name.”—“ Why, then, my child, come to 
my arms again; and now you are a thousand times more wel¬ 
come than before ; for you are now his wife to all intents and 
purposes ; nor can all the laws of man, though written upon 
tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred connection.” 

“ Alas, papa,” replied she, “ you are but little acquainted 
with his villanies ; he has been married already by the same 
priest to six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has 
deceived and abandoned.” 

“ Has he so ? ” cried I, “ then we must hang the priest, and 
you shall inform against him to-morrow.” “ But, sir,” re¬ 
turned she, “ will that be right, when I am sworn to secrecy ? ” 
—“ My dear,” I replied, “ if you have made such a promise I 
cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even though it may 
benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all 
human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater 
good; as in politics, a province may be given away to secure 
a kingdom; in medicine, a limb may be lopped off to preserve 
the body; but in religion, the law is written, and inflexible, 
never to do evil. And this law, my child is right; for other¬ 
wise, if we commit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, 
certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of contin¬ 
gent advantage. And though the advantage should certainly 
follow, yet the interval between commission and advantage,which 
is allowed to be guilty, may be that in which we are called 
away to answer for the things we have done, and the volume 
of human actions is closed forever. But I interrupt you, my 
dear; go on.” 

“ The very next morning,” continued she, “ I found what 
little expectation I was to have from his sincerity. That very 
morning he introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, 
like me, he had deceived, but who lived in contented prostitu¬ 
tion. I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his affec¬ 
tions, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. 
With this view I danced, dressed, and talked ; but was still un¬ 
happy. The gentlemen who visited there told me every moment 
of the power of my charms, and this only contributed to increase 
my melancholy as I had thrown all their power quite away. 
Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


loi 


last the monster had the assurance to offer me to a young baro¬ 
net of his acquaintance. Need I describe, sir, how his ingrati¬ 
tude stung me ? My answer to this proposal was almost mad¬ 
ness. I desired to part. As I was going he offered me a 
purse ; but I flung it at him with indignation, and burst from 
him in a rage, that for awhile kept me insensible of the miseries 
of my situation. But I soon looked around me, and saw my¬ 
self a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world 
to apply to. Just in that interval a stage-coach happening to 
pass by, I took a place, it being my aim to be driven at a dis¬ 
tance from a wretch I despised and detested. I was set down 
here, where, since my arrival, my own anxiety, and this woman’s 
unkindness have been my only companions. The hours of 
pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and sister are now 
grown painful to me. Their sorrows are much; but mine are 
greater than their’s, for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy.” 

“ Have patience, my child,” cried I, “ and I hope things 
will yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow 
I’ll carry you home to your mother and the rest of the family, 
from whom you will receive a kind reception.—Poor woman, 
this has gone to her heart: but she loves you still, Olivia, and 
will forget it.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Offences are easily pardoned where there is Love at bottom. 

The next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set 
out on my return home. As we travelled along, I strove by 
every persuation to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her 
with resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother. 
I took every opportunity from the prospect of a fine country, 
through which we passed, to observe how much kinder heaven 
was to us than we to each other, and that the misfortunes of 
nature’s making were very few. I assured her, that she should 
never perceive any change in my affections, and that during my 
life, which yet might be long, she might depend upon a guardian 
and an instructor. I armed her against the censures of the 
world, showed her that books were sweet unreproaching com¬ 
panions to the miserable, and that if they could not bring us to 
enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it. 



102 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night 
at an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house > 
and as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter’s re¬ 
ception, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to 
return for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the 
next morning. It was night before we reached our appointed 
stage : however, after seeing her provided with a decent apart¬ 
ment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper refresh¬ 
ments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now 
my heart caught new sensations of pleasure the nearer I ap¬ 
proached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that has been 
frighted from its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and 
hovered around my little fireside with all the rapture of expec¬ 
tation. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and an¬ 
ticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife’s 
tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I 
walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The laborers of the 
day were all retired to rest; the lights were out in every cot¬ 
tage ; no sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and the 
deep-mouthed watch-dog at hollow distance. I approached my 
little abode of pleasure, and before I was within a furlong of 
the place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome me. 

It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door ; 
—all was still and silent;—my heart dilated with unutterable 
happiness, when, to my amazement, I saw the house bursting 
out into a blaze of fire, and every aperture red with conflagra¬ 
tion ! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pave¬ 
ment insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till this been 
asleep, and he perceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife 
and daughter; and all running out, naked, and wild with ap¬ 
prehension, recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was 
only to objects of new terror; for the flames had by this time 
caught the roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to 
fall in, while the family stood with silent agony looking on as if 
they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by 
turns, and then looked round me for my two little ones ; but 
they were not to be seen. O misery ! “ Where,” cried I, 

“ where are my little ones ? ” “ They are burnt to death in the 

flames,” says my wife, calmly, “ and I will die with them.”— 
That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were 
just awaked by the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. 
“ Where, where are my children ? ” cried I, rushing through 
the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in which they 
were confined ; “ where are my little ones ? ”—'“ Here, dear 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


t.03 


papa here we are,” cried they together, while the flames were 
just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in 
my arms, and snatched them through the fire as fast as possible, 
while, just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. “ Now,” cried 
I, holding up my children, “ now let the flames burn on, and 
all my possessions perish. Here they are ; I have saved my 
treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we 
shall yet be happy.” Wc kissed our little darlings a thousand 
times; they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share 
our transports, while their mother laughed and wept by turns. 

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some 
time began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was 
scorched in a terrible manner. It was therefore out of my 
power to give- my son any assistance, either in attempting to 
save our goods, or preventing the flames spreading to our corn. 
By this time the neighbors were alarmed, and came running to 
our assistance ; but all they could do was to stand, like us, spec¬ 
tators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes 
I had reserved for my daughters’ fortunes, were entirely con¬ 
sumed, except a box with some papers that stood in the kitchen, 
and two or three things more of little consequence, which my 
6 on brought away in the beginning. The neighbors contributed, 
however, what they could to lighten out distress. They brought 
us clothes, and furnished one of our out-houses with kitchen 
utensils ; so that by daylight we had another, though a wretched 
dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbor and his 
children were not the least assiduous in providing us with every 
thing necessary, and offering whatever consolation untutored 
benevolence could suggest. 

When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know 
the cause of my long stay began to take place : having there¬ 
fore informed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare 
them for the reception of our lost one, and though we had 
nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to pro¬ 
cure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have 
been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had hum¬ 
bled my wife’s pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflic¬ 
tions. Being unable to go for my poor child myself, as my arm 
grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, who soon re¬ 
turned, supporting the wretched delinquent, who had not the 
courage to look up at her mother, whom no instruction of mine 
could persuade to a perfect reconciliation : for women have a 
much stronger sense of female error than men. “ Ah, madam,” 
cried her mother, “ this is but a poor place you have come to 


104 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford bat 
little entertainment to persons who have kept company only 
with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father 
and I have suffered very much of late : but I hope Heaven will 
forgive you.” During this reception, the unhappy victim stood 
pale and trembling, unable to weep or reply: but I could not 
continue a silent spectator of her distress ; wherefore, assuming 
a degree of severity in my voice and manner, which was ever 
followed with instant submission, “ I entreat, woman, that my 
words may be now marked once for all: I have here brought 
you back a poor deluded wanderer; her return to duty de¬ 
mands the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships of 
life are now coming fast upon us ; let us not, therefore, increase 
them by dissension among each other ! If we live harmoniously 
together we may yet be contented, as there are enough of us to 
shut out the censuring world, and keep each other in counte¬ 
nance. The kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent, 
and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we are as¬ 
sured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner, than 
ninety-nine persons who have supported a course of undeviating 
rectitude. And this is right; for that single effort by which we 
stop short in the down-hill path to perdition, is itself a greater 
exertion of virtue than a hundred acts of justice.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable. 


Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode 
as convenient as possible, and we were soon again qualified to 
enjoy our former serenity. Being disabled myself from as¬ 
sisting my son in our usual occupations, I read to my family 
from the few books that were saved, and particularly from 
such as, by amusing the imagination, contributed to ease the 
heart. Qur good neighbors, too, came every day with the 
kindest condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to 
assist in repairing my former dwelling. Honest Farmer Wil¬ 
liams was not the last among these visitors ; but heartily offered 
his friendship. He would even have renewed his addresses to 
ray daughter ; but she rejected him in such a manner as totally 
repressed his future solicitations.—Her grief seemed formed 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


for continuing, and she was the only person of our little society 
that a week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that 
unblushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, 
and to seek pleasure by pleasing.—Anxiety now had taken pos¬ 
session of her mind ; her beauty began to be impaired with her 
constitution, and neglect still more contributed to diminish it. 
Every tender epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang to 
her heart and a tear to her eye ; and as one vice, though cured, 
ever plants others where it has been, so her former guilt, 
though driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy behind. 
I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even forgot 
my own pains in a concern for hers, collecting such amusing 
passages of history as a strong memory and some reading 
could suggest.—“ Our happiness, my dear,” I would say,“ is in 
the power of one who can bring it about a thousand unforeseen 
ways that mock our foresight. If example be necessary to prove 
this, I’ll give you a story, my child, told us by a grave, though 
sometimes a romancing, historian. 

“ Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman 
of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the 
age of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant son in 
the open window of an apartment which- hung over the river 
Volturna, the child with a sudden spring leaped from her arms 
into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The 
mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to 
save him, plunged in after ; but far from being able to assist 
the infant, she herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite 
shore, just when some French soldiers were plundering the 
country on that side, who immediately made her their prisoner. 

“ As the war was then carried on between the French and 
Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once 
to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by appetite and 
cruelty. This base resolution, however, was opposed by a 
young officer, who, though their retreat required the utmost 
expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety 
to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye, her merit 
soon after his heart. They were married ; he rose to the highest 
posts ; they lived long together, and were happy. But the 
felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent: after an 
interval of several years, the troops which he commanded hav¬ 
ing met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the 
city where he had lived with his wife. Here they suffered a 
siege, and the city at length was taken. Few histories can 
produce more various instances of cruelty than those which 


106 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. 
It was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all 
the French prisoners to death ; but particularly the husband of 
the unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in 
protracting the siege. Their determinations were in general 
executed almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier 
was led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood ready, 
while the spectators in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, 
which was only suspended till the general, who presided as 
judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish 
and expectation that Matilda came to take a last farewell of 
her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, 
and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by 
a premature death in the river Volturna, to be the spectator of 
still greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, 
was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; 
but with still stronger emotions when he heard her mention her 
former dangers. He was her son, the infant for whom she had 
encountered so much danger. He acknowledged her at once 
as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily 
supposed ; the captive was set free,, and all the happiness that 
love, friendship, and duty could confer on each, were united.” 

In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter, but 
she listened with divided attention ; for her own misfortunes 
engrossed all the pity she once had for those of another, and 
nothing gave her ease. In company she dreaded contempt; 
and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the color of 
her wretchedness, when we received certain information that 
Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for 
whom I always suspected he had a real passion, though he took 
every opportunity before me to express his contempt both of 
her person and fortune. This news only served to increase 
poor Olivia’s affliction : such a flagrant breach of fidelity was 
more than her courage could support. I was resolved, how¬ 
ever, to get more certain information, and to defeat if possible 
the completion of his designs, by sending my son to old Mr. 
Wilmot’s with instructions to know the truth of the report, and 
to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thornhill’s con¬ 
duct in my family. My son went in pursuance of my directions, 
and in three days returned, assuring us of the truth of the 
account; but that he had found it impossible to deliver the 
letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thorn¬ 
hill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They 
were to be married, he said, in a few days, having appeared 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


107 

together at church the Sunday before he was there, in great 
splendor, the bride attended by six young ladies, and he by as 
many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole 
country with rejoicing, and they usually rode out together in 
the grandest equipage that had been seen in the country foi 
many years. All the friends of both families, he said, were 
there, particularly the ’Squire’s uncle, Sir William Thornhill, 
who bore so good a character. He added that nothing but 
mirth and feasting were going forward ; that all the country 
praised the young bride’s beauty, and the bridegroom’s fine 
person, and that they were immensely fond of each other ; con¬ 
cluding that he could not help thinking Mr. Thornhill one of 
the most happy men in the world. 

“ Why, let him, if he can,” returned I: “ but, my son, ob¬ 
serve this bed of straw, and unsheltering roof ; those moulder¬ 
ing walls, and humid floor; my wretched body thus disabled 
by fire, and my children weeping around me for bread ;—you 
have come home, my child, to all this; yet here, even here, you 
see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange situa¬ 
tions. O, my children, if you could but learn to commune with 
your own hearts, and know what noble company you can make 
them, you would little regard the elegance and splendor of the 
worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a pas¬ 
sage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude still may 
be improved, when we observe that the good are joyful and 
serene, like travellers that are going towards home; the wicked 
but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into 
exile.” 

My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this 
new disaster, interrupted what I had further to observe. I bade 
her mother support her, and after a short time she recovered. 
She appeared from that time more calm, and I imagined had 
gained a new degree of resolution: but appearances deceived 
mo;for her tranquillity was the languor of over-wrought resent¬ 
ment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent us by my kind 
parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness among the 
rest of the family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once 
more sprightly and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp 
their satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, 
or to burden them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus once 
more the tale went round, and the song was demanded, and 
cheerfulness condescended to hover round our little habitation. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


ioS 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Fresh Calamities. 

The next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for 
the season, so that we agreed to breakfast together on the 
honey-suckle bank; where, while we sat, my youngest daughter 
at my request joined her voice to the concert on the trees about 
us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, 
and every object served to recall her sadness. But that mel¬ 
ancholy which is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by 
sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. 
Her mother, too, upon this occasion felt a pleasing distress, 
and wept, and loved her daughter as before. “ Do, my pretty 
Olivia,” cried she, “ let us have that little melancholy air your 
papa was so fond of; your sister Sophy has already obliged us. 
Do, child, it will please your old father.” She complied in a 
manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 

And finds too late that men betray, 

What charms can soothe her melancholy, 

What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 

And wring his bosom—is to die. 

As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an inter¬ 
ruption in her voice from sorrow gave a peculiar softness, the 
appearance of Mr. Thornhill’s equipage at a distance alarmed 
us all, but particularly increased the uneasiness of my eldest 
daughter, who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, returned to 
the house with her sister. In a few minutes he was alighted 
from his chariot, and making up to the place where I was still 
sitting, inquired after my health with his usual air of familiarity. 
“ Sir,” replied I, “your present assurance only serves to aggra¬ 
vate the baseness of your character ; and there was a time when 
I would have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to 
appear before me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled 
my passions, and my calling restrains them.” 

“ I vow, my dear sir,” returned he, “ I am amazed at all this ; 
nor can I understand what it means ! I hope you don’t think 


P/CAE OF WAKEFIELD. 


100 

your daughter’s late excursion with me had anything criminal 
in it?” 

“ Go,” cried I, “ thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, 
and every way a liar : but your meanness secures you from my 
anger ! Yet, sir, I am descended from a family that would not 
have borne this !—And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momen¬ 
tary passion, thou hast made one poor creature wretched for 
life, and polluted a family that had nothing but honor for their 
portion ! ” 

“ If she or you,” returned he, “ are resolved to be miserable, 

I cannot help it. But you may still be happy ; and whatever 
opinion you -may have formed of me, you shall ever find me 
ready to contribute to it. We can marry hei; to another in a 
short time,-and what is more, she may keep her lover beside; 
for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard for 
her.” 

I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading pro¬ 
posal ; for though the mind may often be calm under great in¬ 
juries, little villany can at any time get within the soul, and 
sting it into rage. “ Avoid my sight, thou reptile ! ” cried I, 
“ nor continue to insult me with thy presence. Were my brave 
son at home he would not suffer this ; but I am old and dis¬ 
abled, and every way undone.” 

“ I find,” cried he, “ you are bent upon obliging me to talk in a 
harsher manner than I intended. But as I have shown you 
what may be hoped from my friendship, it may not be improper 
to represent what may be the consequences of my resentment. 
My attorney, to whom your late bond has been transferred, 
threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent the course o t 
justice, except by paying the money myself, which, as I have 
been at some expenses lately, previous to my intended marriage, 
is not so easy to be done. And then my steward talks of driv¬ 
ing for the rent: it is certain he knows his duty; for I never 
trouble myself with affairs of that nature. Yet still I could wish 
to serve you, and even to have you and your daughter present 
at my marriage, which is shortly to be solemnized with Miss 
Wilmot; it is even the request of my charming Arabella her¬ 
self, whom I hope you will not refuse.” 

“ Mr. Thornhill,” replied I, “ hear me once for all: As to 
your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will 
consent to ; and though your friendship could raise me to a 
throne, or your resentment sink me to the grave, yet would I 
despise both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably deceived 
me. I reposed my heart upon thine honor, and have found it$ 


1*0 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


baseness. Never more therefore expect friendship from me. 
Go, and possess what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, 
health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, dis¬ 
ease and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall my heart still 
vindicate its dignity; and though thou hast my forgiveness, 
thou shalt ever have my contempt.” 

“ If so,” returned he, “ depend upon it you shall feel the 
effects of this insolence ! and we shall shortly see which is the 
fittest object of scorn, you or me.”—Upon which he departed 
abruptly. 

My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed 
terrified with apprehension. My daughters, also, finding that 
he was gone, came out to be informed of the result of our con¬ 
ference, which, when known, alarmed them not less then the 
rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of his 
malevolence: he had already struck the blow, and now I stood 
prepared to repel every new effort; like one of those instru¬ 
ments used in the art of war, which, however thrown, still pre¬ 
sents a point to receive the enemy. 

We soon however found that he had not threatened in vain ; 
for the very next morning his steward came to demand my an¬ 
nual rent, which by the train of accidents already related, I 
was unable to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was 
his driving my cattle that evening, and their being appraised 
and sold the next day for less than half their value.—My wife 
and children now therefore entreated me to comply upon any 
terms, rather than incur certain destruction. They even begged 
of me to admit his visits once more, and used all their little 
eloquence to paint the calamities I was going to endure;—the 
terrors of a prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with 
the danger that threatened my health from the late accident 
that happened by the fire. But I continued inflexible. 

“ Why, my treasures,” cried I, “ why will you thus attempt 
to persuade me to the thing that is not right! My duty has 
taught me to forgive him, but my conscience will not permit me 
to approve. Would you have me applaud to the world what 
my heart must internally condemn ? Would you have me tamely 
sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer; and, to avoid a 
prison, continually suffer the more galling bonds of mental con¬ 
finement ? No, never. If we are to be taken from this abode, 
only let us hold to the right; and wherever we are thrown, we 
can still retire to a charming apartment, when we can look 
round our own hearts with intrepidity and pleasure ! ” 

In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


lit 


morning, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, 
my son was employed in clearing it away, and opening a pass- 
age before the door. He had not been thus engaged long, when 
he came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two 
strangers, whom he knew to be officers of the justice, were 
making towards the house. 

Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed 
where I lay, after previously informing me of their employment 
and business, made me their prisoner, bidding me prepare to 
go with them to the county jail, which was eleven miles off. 

“ My friend,” said I, “ this is severe weather in which you 
have come to take me to a prison; and it is particularly urn 
fortunate at this time, as one of my arms has lately been burnt 
in a terrible manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, 
and I want clothes to cover me ; and I am now too weak and 
old to walk far in such deep snow ; but if it must be so-” 

I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them 
to get together what few things were left us, and prepare imme¬ 
diately for leaving this place. I entreated them to be expedi¬ 
tious, and desired my son to assist his eldest sister, who from 
a consciousness that she was the cause of all our calamities, 
was fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility. I encour¬ 
aged my wife, -who, pale and trembling, clasped our affrighted 
little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, 
dreading to look round at the strangers. In the meantime my 
youngest daughter prepared for our departure, and as she re¬ 
ceived several hints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were 
ready to depart. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort attending i«. 

We set forward from this peaceful neighborhood, and walked 
on slowly. My eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow 
fever, which had begun for some days to undermine her con¬ 
stitution, one of the officers, who had a horse, kindly took her 
behind him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest them¬ 
selves of humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the 
hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest 
girl, whose tears fell not for her own but my distresses. 

We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, 




VICAR OF WAK&FIEL&. 


tl2 

when we saw a crowd running and shouting behind us, consist¬ 
ing of about fifty of my poorest parishioners. These, with 
dreadful imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of jus¬ 
tice, and swearing they would never see their minister go to 
jail while they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, 
were going to use them with great severity. The consequence 
might have been fatal had I not immediately interposed, and 
with some difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the 
enraged multitude. My children, who looked upon my de¬ 
livery now as certain, appeared transported with joy, and were 
incapable of containing their raptures. But they were soon 
undeceived, upon hearing me address the poor deluded people, 
who came as they imagined to do me service. 

“ What! my friends,” cried I, “ and is this the way you 
love me ? Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have 
given you from the pulpit ? Thus to fly in the face of justice, 
and bring down ruin on yourselves and me ! Which is your 
ring-leader ? Show me the man that has . thus seduced you. 
As sure as he lives he shall feel my resentment.—Alas ! my 
dear deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to 
your country, and to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see you 
in greater felicity here, and contribute to make your lives more 
happy. But let it at least be my comfort when I pen my fold 
for immortality, that not one here shall be wanting.” 

They now seemed all repentance, and melting into tears, 
came one after the other to bid me farewell. I shook each 
tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my blessing, proceeded 
forward without meeting any further interruption. Some hours 
before night we reached the town, or rather village, for it con¬ 
sisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its former 
opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient superiority but 
the jail. 

Upon entering we put up at the inn, where we had such re¬ 
freshments as could most readily be procured, and I supped 
with my family with my usual cheerfulness. After seeing them 
properly accommodated for that night, I next attended the 
sheriff’s officers to the prison, which had formerly been built 
for the purpose of war, and consisted of one large apart¬ 
ment, strongly grated and paved with stone, common to both 
felons and debtors gt certain hours in the four-and-twenty. 
Besides this, every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was 
locked in for the night. 

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamenta¬ 
tions and various sounds of misery : but it was very different. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


1*3 

The prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, 
that of forgetting thought in merriment or clamor. I was ap¬ 
prized of the usual perquisite required upon these occasions, 
and immediately complied with the demand, though the little 
money I had was very near being all exhausted. This was im¬ 
mediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison soon was 
filled with riot, laughter, and profaneness. 

“ How,” cried I to myself, “ shall men so very wicked be 
cheerful, and shall I be melancholy ? I feel only the same con¬ 
finement with them, and I think I have more reason to be 
happy.” 

With such reflections I labored to become cheerful, but 
cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort, which is itself 
painful. As I was sitting, therefore, in a corner of the jail in 
a pensive posture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and 
sitting by me, entered into conversation. It was my constant 
rule in life never to avoid the conversation of any man who 
seemed to desire it: for, if good, I might profit by his instruc¬ 
tion ; if bad he might be assisted by mine. I found this to be 
a knowing man, of strong unlettered sense, but a thorough 
knowledge of the world, as it is called, or more properly speak¬ 
ing, of human nature on the wrong side. He asked me if I 
had taken care to provide myself with a bed, which was a cir¬ 
cumstance I had never attended to. 

“That’s unfortunate,” cried he, “as you are allowed here 
nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. 
However, you seem to be something of a gentleman, and as I 
have been one myself in my time, part of my bed-clothes are 
heartily at your service.” 

I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such hu¬ 
manity in a jail in misfortunes; adding to let him see that I 
was a scholar, “ That the sage ancient seemed to understand 
the value of company in affliction, when he said, Ton kosmon 
aire, ei dos ton etairon ; and in fact,” continued I, “ what is the 
world if it affords only solitude ? ” 

“ You talk of the world, sir,” returned my fellow-prisoner; 
“the world is in itSidotage ; and yet the cosmogony or creation 
of the world has puzzled the philosophers of every age. What 
a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation 
of the world! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, BerosuS, and Ocellus 
Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these 
words, Anarchon ara kai atelntaion to pan, which imply—” . “ I 
ask pardon, sir,” cried I, “ for interrupting so much learning; 
but I think I have heard all this before, ' Have I not had the 




VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


114 

pleasure of once seeing you at Welbridge fair, and is not your 
name Ephraim Jenkinson? ” At this demand he only sighed. 
“I suppose you must recollect,” resumed I, “one Doctor Prim¬ 
rose, from whom you bought a horse ? ” 

He now at once recollected me; for the gloominess of the 
place and the approaching night had prevented his distinguish¬ 
ing my features before.—“Yes, sir,” returned Mr. Jenkinson, 
“ I remember you perfectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot 
to pay for him. Your neighbor Flamborough is the only prose¬ 
cutor I am in any way afraid of at the next assizes; for he in¬ 
tends to swear positively against me as a coiner. I am heartily 
sorry, sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any man ; for you 
see,” continued he, showing his shackles, “ what my tricks have 
brought me to.” 

“ Well, sir,” replied I, “ your kindness in offering me as¬ 
sistance when you could expect no return, shall be repaid with 
my endeavors to soften or totally suppress Mr. Flamborough’s 
evidence, and I will send my son to him for that purpose the 
first opportunity ; nor do I in the least doubt but he will com- 
ply with my request; and as to my own evidence, you need be 
under no uneasiness about that.” 

“ Well, sir,” cried he, “ all the return I can make shall be 
yours. You shall have more than half my bed-clothes to-night, 
and I’ll take care to stand your friend in the prison, where I 
think I have some influence.” 

I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the 
present youthful change in his aspect, for at the time I had 
seen him before, he appeared at least sixty—“Sir,” answered 
he, “you are little acquainted with the world; I had at that 
time false hair, and have learned the art of counterfeiting every 
age from seventeen to seventy. Ah ! sir, had I but bestowed 
half the pains in learning a trade that I have in learning to be 
a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day. But 
rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and that perhaps when 
you least expect it.” 

We were now prevented from further conversation by the 
arrival of the jailer’s servants, who came to call over the pris¬ 
oner’s names and lock up for the night. A fellow also with a 
bundle of straw for my bed attended, who led me along a dark 
narrow passage into a room paved like the common prison, and 
in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the clothes given 
me by my fellow-prisoner; which done, my conductor, who wis 
civil enough, bade me a good-night. After my usual medita¬ 
tions, and having praised my Fleavenly Corrector, I laid my¬ 
self down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity till morning. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 




CHAPTER XXVI. 

A Reformation in the Jail.—To make laws, complete, they should Reward as well as 

Punish. 

The next morning early I was awakened by my family, 
whom I found in tears at my bedside. The gloomy strength 
of everything about us, it seems, had daunted them. I gently 
rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I had never slept with 
greater tranquillity, and next inquired after my eldest daughter, 
who was not among them. They informed me that yesterday’s 
uneasiness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was 
judged proper to leave her behind. My next care was to send 
my son to procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as near 
the prison as conveniently could be found. He obeyed ; but 
could only find one apartment, which was hired at a small ex¬ 
pense for his mother and sisters, the jailer with humanity con¬ 
senting to let him and his two little brothers lie in the prison 
with me. A bed was therefore prepared for them in a corner 
of the room, which I thought answered very conveniently. I 
was willing, however, previously to know whether my children 
chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon 
entrance. 

“ Well,” cried I, “ my good boys, how do you like your bed ? 
I hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears ? ” 

“ No, papa,” says Dick, “ I am not afraid to lie anywhere 
Where you are.” 

“ And I,” says Bill, who was yet but four years old, “ love 
every place best that my papa is in.” 

After this I allotted to each of the family what they were 
to do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her de¬ 
clining sister’s health ; my wife was to attend me; my little 
boys were to read to me. “ And as for you, my son,” con¬ 
tinued I, “ it is by the labor of your hands we must all hope to 
be supported. Your wages as a day-laborer will be fully suffi¬ 
cient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and comfortably 
too. Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength; and 
it was given thee, my son, for very useful purposes ; for it must 
save from famine your helpless parents and family. Prepare 
then this evening to look out for work against to-morrow, and 
bring home every night what money you can earn for our 
support,” 




VICAR OF WAKEFTELij. 


ii6 


Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked 
down to the common prison, where I could enjoy more air and 
room. But I was not long there when the execrations, lewd* 
ness and brutality that invaded me on every side, drove me 
back to my apartment again. Here I sat for some time ponder¬ 
ing upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who, finding all 
mankind in open arms against them, were laboring to make 
themselves a future and a tremendous enemy. 

Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and 
blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared 
a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I re¬ 
solved therefore once more to return, and, in spite of their con¬ 
tempt, to give them my advice, and conquer them by my perse¬ 
verance. Going therefore among them again, I informed Mr. 
Jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but com¬ 
municated it to the rest. The proposal was received with the 
greatest good-humor, as it promised to afford a new fund of 
entertainment to persons who had now no other resource for 
mirth, but what could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. 

I therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud 
unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon 
the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, 
winking and coughing, alternately excited laughter. However 
I continued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that 
what I did might mend some, but could itself receive no con¬ 
tamination from any. 

After reading I entered upon my exhortation, which was 
rather calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I 
previously observed, that no other motive but their welfare 
could induce me to this ; that I was their fellow-prisoner, and 
now got nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear 
them so very profane ; because they got nothing by it, but 
might lose a great deal: “ For be assured, my friends,” cried 
I, “ for you are my friends, however the world -may disclaim 
your friendship, though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a 
day, it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what 
signifies calling every moment upon the devil, and courting 
his friendship, since you find how scurvily he uses you ? He 
has given you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths 
and an empty belly, and by the best accounts I have of him, 
he will give you nothing that’s good hereafter. 

“ If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go 
elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then, just to try 
how you may like the usage of another master, who gives you 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


H7 

fair promises at least to come to him ? Surely, my friends, of 
all stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest, who after 
robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for protection. And 
yet how are you more wise ? You are all seeking comfort from 
one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more mali¬ 
cious being than any thief-taker of them all: for they only de¬ 
coy and then hang you : but he decoys and hangs, and what is 
worst of all, will not let you loose after the hangman has done.” 

When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my 
audience, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, 
swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and that they desired 
my further acquaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my 
lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of mak¬ 
ing a reformation here; for it had ever been my opinion, that 
no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying 
open to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a 
proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back 
to my apartment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while 
Mr. Jenkinson begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and 
partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to express it, 
of my conversations. He had not yet seen my family ; for as 
they came to my apartment by a door in the narrow passage 
already described, by this means they avoided the common 
prison. Jenkinson at the first interview, therefore, seemed not 
a little struck with the beauty of my youngest daughter, which 
her pensive air contributed to heighten ; and my little ones did 
not pass unnoticed. 

“ Alas, doctor,” cried he, “ these children are too hand¬ 
some and too good for such a place as this ! ” 

“Why, Mr. Jenkinson!” replied I, “thank Heaven my 
children are pretty tolerable in morals ; and if they be good, 
it matters little for the rest.” 

“ I fancy, sir,” returned my fellow-prisoner, “ that it must 
give you great comfort to have all this little family about you.” 

“A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson ! ” replied I; “yes, it is in¬ 
deed a comfort, and I would not be without them for all the 
world ; for they can make a dungeon seem a palace. There 
is but one way in this life of wounding my happiness, and that 
is by injuring them. 

“ I am afraid then, sir,” cried he, “ that I am in some 
measure culpable; for I think I see here (looking at my son 
Moses), one that I have injured, and by whom I wish to be 
forgiven.” 

My son immediately recollected his voice and features. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


118 

though he had before seen him in disguise, and taking him hy 
the hand, with a smile forgave him. “ Yet,” continued he, 
“ I can’t help wondering at what you could see in my face, to 
think me a proper mark for deception.” 

“ My dear sir,” returned the other, “ it was not your face, 
but your white stockings, and the black ribbon in your hair, 
that allured me. But no disparagement to your parts, I have 
deceived wiser men than you in my time ; and yet, with all my 
tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at last.” 

“ I suppose,” cried my son, “ that the narrative of such a 
life yours must be extremely instructive and amusing.” 

“ Not much of either,” returned Mr. Jenkinson. “Those 
relations which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, 
by increasing our suspicion in life, retard our success. The 
traveller that distrusts every person he meets, and turns back 
upon the appearance of every man that looks like a robber, 
seldom arrives in time at his journey’s end. 

“Indeed I think, from my own experience, that the know¬ 
ing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cun¬ 
ning from my very childhood : when but seven years old, the 
ladies would say that I was a perfect little man; at fourteen I 
knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; at 
twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought 
me so cunning that not one would trust me. Thus I was at 
last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have 
lived ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to deceive, 
and my heart palpitating with fears of detection. I used often 
to laugh at your honest, simple neighbor Flamborough, and 
one way or another generally cheated him once a year. Yet 
still the honest man went forward without suspicion and grew 
rich, while I still continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor, 
without the consolation of being honest. However,” continued 
he, “ let me know your case, and what has brought you here ; 
perhaps, though I have not skill to avoid a jail myself, I may 
extricate my friends.” 

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the 
whole train of accidents and follies that had plunged me into 
my present troubles, and my utter inability to get free. 

After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slap¬ 
ped his forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, 
and took his leave, saying he would try what could be done. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


119 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The same subject continued. 

The next morning I communicated to my wife and children 
the scheme I had planned of reforming the prisoners, which 
they received with universal disapprobation, alleging the im¬ 
possibility and impropriety of it, adding, that my endeavors 
would no way contribute to their amendment, but might pro¬ 
bably disgrace my calling. 

“Excuse me,” returned I, “these people, however fallen, 
are still men ; and that is a very good title to my affections. 
Good counsel rejected, returns to enrich the giver’s bosom ; 
and though the instruction I communicate may not mend them, 
yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, my chil¬ 
dren, were princes, there would be thousands ready to offer 
their ministry; but in my opinion, the heart that is buried in a 
dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, 
my treasures, if I can mend them, I will; perhaps they will 
not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up even one from 
the gulf, and that will be a great gain; for is there upon earth 
a gem so precious as the human soul ? ” 

Thus saying, I left them, arid descended to the common 
prison, where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my 
arrival; and each prepared wit«h some jail trick to play upon 
the doctor. Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my wig 
awry, as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A second 
who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting through 
his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A third would 
cry amen in such an affected tone, as gave the rest great de¬ 
light. A fourth had slily picked my pocket of my spectacles. 
But there was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure 
than all the rest; for observing the manner in which I had 
disposed my books on the table before me, he very dexterously 
displaced one of them aad put an obscene jest-book of his 
own in the place. However, I took no notice of all that this 
mischievous group of little beings could do, but went on per¬ 
fectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt would 
excite mirth only the first or second time, while what was seri¬ 
ous would be permanent. My design succeeded, and in less 
than six days some were penitent, and all attentive. 


120 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address, 
at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral 
feeling; and now began to think of doing them temporal ser¬ 
vices also by rendering their situation somewhat more comfort¬ 
able. Their time had hitherto been divided between famine 
and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only 
employment was in quarelling among each other, playing at 
cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this last mode 
of idle industry I took the hint of setting such as chose to work 
at cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper 
wood being bought by a general subscription, and when manu¬ 
factured, sold by my appointment, so that each earned some¬ 
thing every day—a trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. 

I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of 
immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less 
than a fortnight I had formed them into something social and 
humane, and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legisla¬ 
tor, who had brought men from their native ferocity into friend¬ 
ship and obedience. « 

And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power 
would thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity; 
that it would seem convinced, that the work of eradicating 
crimes is not by making punishments familiar, but formidable. 
Then, instead of our present prisons, which find or make men 
guilty, which enclose wretches for the commission of one crime, 
and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration 
of thousands ; we should see, as in other parts of Europe, places 
of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be attended 
by such as could give them repentance if guilty, or new motives 
to virtue if innocent. And this, but not the increasing punish¬ 
ments, is the way to mend a state. Nor can I avoid even 
questioning the validity of that right which social combinations ' 
have assumed, of capitally punishing offences of a slight nature. 
In cases of murder their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us 
all, from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has 
shown a disregard for the life of another. Against such, all 
nature rises in arms ; but it is not so against him who steals 
my property. Natural law gives me no right to take away his 
life, as, by that, the horse he steals is as much his property as 
mine. If then I have any right, it must be from a compact 
made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse 
shall die. But this is a false compact; because no man has a 
right to barter his life any more than to take it away, as it is 
not his own. And beside, the compact is inadequate, and would 



12 I 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 

be set aside even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great 
penalty for a very trifling convenience, since it is far better that 
two men should live than that one man should ride. But a 
compact that is false between two men, is equally so between 
a hundred or a hundred thousand; for as ten million of circles 
can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads cannot 
lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus that rea¬ 
son speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. Sav¬ 
ages that are directed by natural law alone, are very tender of 
the lives of each other; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate 
former cruelty. 

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but 
few executions in time of peace ; and in all commencing govern¬ 
ments that have the print of nature still strong upon them, 
scarcely any crime is held capital. 

It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal 
laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the 
poor. Government, while it grows older, seems to acquire the 
moroseness of age; and as if our property were become dearer 
in proportion as it increased; as if the more enormous our 
wealth the more extensive our fears, all our possessions are 
paled up with new edicts every day and hung round with gibbets 
to scare every invader. 

I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal 
laws, or the licentiousness of our people, that this country should 
show more convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe 
united. Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutually produce 
each other. When by indiscrim’nate penal laws, a nation be¬ 
holds the same punishment affixed to dissimilar degrees of 
guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the penalty, the people 
are led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime, and this 
distinction is the bulwark of all morality; thus the multitude 
of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh re¬ 
straints. 

It were to be wished then, that power, instead of contriving 
new laws to punish vice: instead of drawing hard the cords of 
society till a convulsion comes to burst them ; instead of cutting 
away wretches as useless before we had tried their utility; in¬ 
stead of converting correction into vengeance,—it were to be 
wished that we tried the restrictive arts of government, and 
made law the protector, but not the tyrant of the people. We 
should then find that creatures, whose souls are held as dross, 
only wanted the hand of a refiner: we should then find that 
creatures, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury should 



122 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to 
sinew the state in times of danger; that as their faces are like 
ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds are so base that 
perseverance cannot amend ; that a man may see his last crime 
without dying for it; and that very little blood will serve to 
cement our security. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Happiness and Mlseiy rather the result of prudence than of virtue in this life; tem¬ 
poral evils or felicities being regarded by Heaven as things merely in themselves 
trifling, and unworthy its care in the distribution. 

I had now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not 
since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly 
longed to see her. Having communicated my wishes to my 
wife the next morning the poor girl entered my apartment lean¬ 
ing on her sister’s arm. The change which I saw in her coun¬ 
tenance struck me. The numberless graces that once resided 
there were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have 
moulded every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, 
her forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her 
cheek. 

“ I am glad to see thee, my dear,” cried I, “ but why this de¬ 
jection, Livy ? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard 
for me to permit disappointment thus to undermine a life which 
I prize as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we yet may see 
happier days.” 

“ You have ever, sir,” replied she, “been kind to me, and 
it adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of 
sharing that happiness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no 
longer reserved for me here ; and I long to be rid of the place 
where I only have found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you 
would make a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill, it may in 
measure induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in 
dying.” 

“ Never, child,” replied I; “ never will I be brought to ac¬ 
knowledge my daughter a prostitute ; for though the world may 
look upon your offence with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as 
a mark of credulity, not of guilt.—My dear, I am no way 
miserable in this place, however dismal it may seem; and be 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


123 

assured, that while you continue to bless me by living, he shall 
never have my consent to make you more wretched by marry¬ 
ing another.” 

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who 
was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated upon my 
obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised to give me 
freedom. He observed, that the rest of my family were not to 
be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only 
one who had offended me. “ Beside,” added he, “ I don’t 
know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, 
which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match you 
cannot hinder, but may render unhappy.” 

“ Sir,” replied I, “ you are unacquainted with the man that 
; oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can 
make would procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told 
that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than last 
year, died for want. But though my submission and approba- 
j tion could transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apart¬ 
ment he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as some¬ 
thing whispers me it would be giving a sanction to adultery. 

| While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever 
be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be 
i the basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt 
putting asunder those who wish for a union. No, villain as he 
is, I should then wish him married, to prevent the consequences 
of his future debaucheries. But now, should I not be the most 
cruel of all fathers to sign an instrument which must send my 
child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus 
to escape one pang, break my child’s heart with a thousand ? ” 

He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not 
avoid observing, that he feared my daughter’s life was already 
too much wasted to keep me long a prisoner. “ However,” 
continued he, “ though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I 
hope you have no objections to laying your case before the 
uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom for every 
thing that is just and good. I would advise you to send him a 
letter by the post, intimating all his nephew’s ill usage, and my 
life for it, that in three days you shall have an answer.” I 
thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about complying ; 
but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had been laid 
out that morning in provisions ; however, he supplied me. 

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to 
know what reception my letter might meet with; but in the 
meantime was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any 






VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


124 

conditions rather than remain here, and every hour received 
repeated accounts of the decline of my daughter’s health. The 
third day and the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to 
my letter: the complaints of a stranger against a favorite 
nephew were no way likely to succeed; so that these hopes 
soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however, still 
supported itself, though confinement and bad air began to make 
a visable alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered 
in the fire grew worse. My children, however, sat by me, and 
while I was stretched on the straw, read to me by turns, or 
listened and wept at my instructions. But my daughter’s 
health declined faster than mine : every message from her con¬ 
tributed to increase my apprehensions and pain. The fifth 
morning after I had written the letter which was sent to Sir 
William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she was 
speechless. Now it was that confinement was truly painful to 
me ; my soul was bursting from its prison to be near the pillow 
of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, and to receive her 
last wishes, and teach her soul the way to heaven ! Another 
account came ; she was expiring, and yet I was debarred the 
small comfort of weeping by her. My fellow-prisoner some 
time after came with the last account. He bade me be 
patient; she was dead! The next morning he returned, and 
found me with my two little ones, now my only companions, 
who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They 
entreated to read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I was too 
old to weep. “And is not my sister an angel now, papa?” 
cried the eldest; “and why then are you sorry for her? I 
wish I were an angel out of this frightful place, if my papa 
were with me.” “ Yes,” added my youngest darling, “ Heaven, 
where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are 
none but good people there, and the people here are very bad.” 

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by obserw 
ing, that, now my daughter was no more, I should seriously 
think of the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own 
life, which was every day declining for want of necessaries and 
wholesome air. He added, that it was now incumbent on me 
to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare 
of those who depended on me for support; and that I was 
now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my 
landlord. 

“ Heaven be praised,” replied I, “ there is no pride left 
me now ; I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or 
resentment lurking there, Oft the contrary as my oppressor 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


T25 

has been once my parishioner, I hope one day to present him 
up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have 
no resentment now, and though he has taken from me what I 
held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung my 
heart,—for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my fellow* 
prisoner,—yet that shall never inspire me with vengeance. I 
am now willing to approve his marriage ; and if this submission 
can do him any pleasure, let him know, that if I have done 
him any injury I am sorry for it.” 

Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my sub¬ 
mission nearly as I have expressed it, to which I signed my 
name. My son was employed to carry the letter to Mr. Thorn¬ 
hill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went, and in 
about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had some 
difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants 
were insolent and suspicious ; but he accidently saw him as he 
was going out upon business, preparing for his marriage, which 
was to be in three days. He continued to inform us, that he 
stepped up in the humblest manner and delivered the letter, 
which, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all submis¬ 
sion was now too late and unnecessary; that he had heard of 
our application to his uncle, which met with the contempt it 
had deserved ; and as for the rest, that all future applications 
should be directed to his attorney, not to him. He observed, 
however, that as he had a very good opinion of the discretion 
of the two young ladies they might have been the most agree¬ 
able intercessors. 

“Well, sir,” said I to my fellow-prisoner, “you now dis¬ 
cover the temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at 
once be facetious and cruel; but let him use me as he will, I 
shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I 
am now drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I ap¬ 
proach it; this expectation cheers my afflictions, and though I 
leave a helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will not 
be utterly forsaken, some friend perhaps will be found to assist 
them for the sake of their poor father, and some may charitably 
relieve them for the sake of their Heavenly Father.” 

Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day 
before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but 
unable to speak. “ Why, my love,” cried I, “ why will you 
thus increase my afflictions by your own ? What though no 
submission can turn our severe master, though he has doomed 
me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have 
lost a darling child, yet still vou will find comfort in your other 





126 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


children when I shall be no more.” “ We have indeed lost,” 
returned she, “a darling child. My Sophia, my dearest, is 
gone ; snatched from us, carried off by ruffians! ” “ How, 

madam,” cried my fellow-prisoner, “ Miss Sophia carried off 
by villains 1 sure it cannot be.” 

She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of 
tears. But one of the prisoner’s wives who was present, and 
came in with her, gave us a more distinct account: she in¬ 
formed us, that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were tak¬ 
ing a walk together on the great road, a little way out of the 
village, a post-chaise and a pair drove up to them, and instantly 
stopped. Upon which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thorn¬ 
hill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and 
forcing her in, bid the postilion drive on, so that they were 
out of sight in a moment. 

“No\\^” cried I, “the sum of my miseries is made up, nor 
is it in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. 
What! not one left! not to leave me one !—The monster !—• 
The child that was next my heart! she had the beauty of an 
angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that 
woman, nor let her fall.—Not to leave me one ! ” 

“ Alas ! my husband,” said my wife, “ you seem to want 
comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great; but I 
could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take 
away my children and all the world, if they leave me but you.” 

My son, who was present, endeavored to moderate her 
grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might 
still have reason to be thankful.—“ My child,” cried I, “ look 
round the world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. 
Is not every ray of comfort shut out, while all our bright pros¬ 
pects only lie beyond the grave ? ”—“ My dear father,” re¬ 
turned he, “ I hope there is still something that will give you 
an interval of satisfaction ; for I have a letter from my brother 
George.”—“ What of him, child ? ” interrupted I, “ does he 
know our misery ? I hope my boy is exempt from any part of 
what his wretched family suffers ? ”—“ Yes, sir,” returned he, 
“ he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings 
nothing but good news; he is the favorite of his colonel, who 
promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that be¬ 
comes vacant.” 

“ And are you sure of all this ? ” cried my wife: “ are 
you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy ? ”—“ Noth¬ 
ing indeed, madam,” returned my son; “ you shall see 
the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure; and if 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


anything can procure you comfort, I am sure that will.”— 
“ But are you sure,” still repeated she, “ that the letter is 
from himself, and that he is really so happy ?” —“ Yes, 
madam,” replied he, “ it is certainly his, and he will one 
day be the credit and support of our family.”—“ Then I 
thank Providence,” cried she “ that my last letter to him has 
miscarried.—Yes, my dear,” continued she, turning to me, 
“ I will now confess, that though the hand of Heaven is 
sore upon us in other instances, it has been favorable here. 
By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness 
of anger, I desired him, upon his mother’s blessing, and if he 
had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sis¬ 
ter, and avenge our cause. But thanks be to Him that directs 
all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest.” “Woman,” 
cried I, “ thou hast done very ill, and at another time my re¬ 
proaches might have been more severe. Oh ! wha%a' tremen¬ 
dous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried Both thee 
and him in endless ruin. Providence indeed has here been 
kinder to us than we to ourselves. .It has reserved that son to 
be the father and protector of my children when I shall be 
away. How unjustly did I complain of being stripped of every 
comfort, when stijl I hear that he is happy, and insensibl-e of 
our afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his widowed 
mother, and to protect his brothers and sisters. But what 
sisters has he left ? he has no sisters now ; they are all gone, 
robbed from me, and I am undone.”—“ Father,” interrupted 
my son, “ I beg you will give me leave to read this letter, I 
know it will please you.” Upon which, with my permission, he 
read as follows :— 

“ Honored Sir, 

I have called off my imagination a few moments from the 
pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are 
still more pleasing, the dear little fireside at home. My fancy 
draws that harmless group listening to every line of this with 
great composure. I view those faces with delight which never 
felt the deforming hand of ambition or distress ! But what¬ 
ever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some 
addition to it to hear, that I am perfectly pleased with my 
situation, and every way happy here. 

“ Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the 
kingdom : the colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes 
me with him to all companies where he is acquainted, and after 
my first visit I generally find myself received with increase^ 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


128 

respect upon repeating it. I danced last night with Lady 
G-, and could I forget you know whom, I might be per¬ 

haps successful. But it is my fate still to remember others, 
while I am myself forgotten by most of my absent friends; and 
in this number, I fear, sir, that I must consider you ; for I 
have long expected the pleasure of a letter from home, to no 
purpose. Olivia and Sophia too promised to write, but seem 
to have forgotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little 
baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent passion 
with them : yet still I know not how, though I want to bluster 
a little, my heart is respondent only to softer amotions. Then 
tell them, sir, that after all I love them affectionately, and be 
assured of my ever remaining Your dutiful son.” 

“ In all our miseries,” cried I, “ what thanks have we not 
to return, that one at least of our family is exempted from what 
we suffer. Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy, 
to be the supporter of his widowed mother, and the father of 
these two babes, which is all.the patrimony I can now bequeath 
him. May he keep their innocence from the temptations of 
want, and be their conductor in the paths of honor ! ” I had 
scarcely said these words, when a noise like # that of a tumult 
seemed to proceed from the prison below; it died away soon 
after, and a clanking of fetters was heard along the passage 
that led to my apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, 
holding a man all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the 
heaviest irons. I looked with compassion on the wretch as he 
approached me, but with horror when i found it was my own 
son.—“ My George ! my George ! and do I behold thee thus ? 
wounded—fettered ! Is this thy happiness ? is this the manner 
you return to me ? O that this sight could break my heart at 
once, and let me die ! ” 

“ Where, sir, is your fortitude ? ” returned my son with an 
intrepid voice. “ I must suffer; my rife is forfeited, and let 
them take it.” 

I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, 
but I thought I should have died with the effort.—“ O my boy, 
my heart weeps to behold thee thus ; and I cannot, cannot help 
it. In the moment that I thought thee blessed, and prayed for 
thy safety, to behold thee thus again ! Chained, wounded ! 
And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a 
very old man, and have lived to see this day! To see my 
children all untimely falling about me, while I continue a 
wretched survivor in the midst of ruin! May all the curses 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


12 $ 

that ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my 
children ! May he live, like me, to see—” 

“ Hold, sir,” replied my son, “ or I shall blush for thee. 
How, sir, forgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arro¬ 
gate the justice of Heaven, and fling those curses upward that 
must soon descend to crush thy own gray head with destruc¬ 
tion ! No, sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile 
death I must shortly suffer; to arm me with hope and resolu¬ 
tion ; to give me courage to drink of that bitterness which 
must shortly be my portion.” 

“ My child, you must not die : I am sure no offence of 
thine can deserve so vile a punishment. My George could 
‘ never be guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed of 
him.” 

“ Mine, sir,” returned my son, “ is, I fear, an unpardonable 
one. When I received my mother’s letter from home, I im¬ 
mediately came down, determined to punish the betrayer of 
our honor, and sent him an order to meet me, which he an¬ 
swered, not in person, but by despatching four of his domestics 
to seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, and I 
fear desperately ; but the rest made me their prisoner. The 
coward is determined to put the law in execution against me ; 
the proofs are undeniable : I have sent a challenge, and as I 
am the first transgressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of 
pardon. But you have often charmed me with your lessons of 
fortitude; let me now, sir, find them in your example.” 

“ And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised 
above this world, and all the pleasures it can produce. From 
this moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it 
down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. 
Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide 
yours in the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I now 
see and am convinced you can expect no pardon here; and I 
can only exhort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where 
we both shall shortly answer. But let us not be niggardly 
in our exhortation, but let all our fellow-prisoners have a share. 
Good jailer, let them be permitted to stand here while I attempt 
to improve them.”—Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from 
my straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline 
against the wall. The prisoners assembled themselves accord- 
I ing to my directions, for they loved to hear my counsel; my 
! son and his mother supported me on either side ; I looked and 
saw that none were wanting, and then addresed them with the 
| following exhortation. 



13 ° 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard to the happy and the 
miserable here beiaw. —That from the nature of pleasure and pain, the wretched 
must be repaid the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter. 


My friends, my children, and my fellow-sufferers, when I 
reflect on the distribution of good and evil here below, I find 
that much has been given man to enjoy, yet still more to 
suffer. Though we should examine the whole world, we shall 
not find one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish for; 
but we daily see thousands, who, by suicide, show us they have 
nothing left to hope. In this life, then, it appears that we 
cannot be entirely blessed, but yet we may be completely mis¬ 
erable. 

Why man should thus feel pain; why our wretchedness 
should be requisite in the formation of universal felicity; why, 
when all other systems are made perfect by the perfection of 
their subordinate parts, the great system should require for its 
perfection parts that are not only subordinate to others, but 
imperfect in themselves ; these are questions that never can be 
explained, and might be useless if known. On this subject, 
Providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied with 
granting us motives to consolation. 

In this situation man has called in the friendly assistance 
of philosophy, and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to 
console him, has given him the aid of religion. The consola¬ 
tions of philosophy are very amusing, but often fallacious. It 
tells us that life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy 
them: and on the other hand, that though we unavoidably 
have miseries here, life is short, and they will soon be over. 
Thus do these consolations destroy each other: for, if life is 
a place of comfort its shortness must be misery, and if it be 
long, our griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak ; but 
religion comforts in a higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, 
fitting up his mind, and preparing it for another abode. When 
the good man leaves the body and is all a glorious mind, he 
will find he has been making himself a heaven of happiness 
here ; while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated 
by his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that 
he has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To religion 


VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 


131 

then we must hold in every circumstance of life for our truest 
comfort; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure to think 
we can make that happiness unending; and if we are miserable, 
it is very consoling to think that there is a place of rest. Thus, 
to the fortunate, religion holds out a continuance of bliss; to 
the wretched a change from pain. 

But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised 
peculiar rewards to the unhappy: the sick, the naked, the 
houseless, the heavy-laden, and the prisoner, have ever most 
frequent promises in our sacred law. The author of our relig¬ 
ion everywhere professes himself the wretch’s friend, and, 
unlike the false ones of this world, bestows all his caresses 
upon the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as par¬ 
tiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it. But they 
never reflect, that it is not in the power even of Heaven itself 
to make the offer of unceasing felicity as great a gift to the 
happy as to the miserable. To the first, eternity is but a single 
blessing, since at most it but increases what they already pos¬ 
sess. To the latter, it is but a double advantage; for it dimin¬ 
ishes their pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss 
hereafter. 

But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor 
than the rich; for as it thus makes the life after death more 
desirable, so it smooths the passage there. The wretched 
have had a long familiarity with every face of terror. The 
man of sorrows lays himself quietly down, without possessions 
to regret, and but few ties to stop his departure: he feels only 
nature’s pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater 
than he has often fainted under before ; for after a certain de¬ 
gree of pain, every new breach that death opens in the consti¬ 
tution, nature kindly covers with insensibility. 

Thus Providence has given the wretched two advantages 
over the happy in this life—greater felicity in dying, and in 
heaven all that superiority of pleasure which arises from con¬ 
trasted enjoyment. And this superiority, my friends, is no 
small advantage, and seems to be one of the pleasures of the 
poor man in the parable ; for though he was already in Heaven, 
and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned as 
an addition to his happiness, that he had once been wretched, 
and now was comforted; that he had known what it was to be 
miserable, and now felt what it was to be happy. 

Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy 
could never do: it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the 
happy and the unhappy, and levels all human enjoyments to 



VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 


* 3 * 

nearly the same standard. It gives to both the rich and poor 
the same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after 
it; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure 
here, the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what 
it was once to be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity 
hereafter; and even though this should be called a small ad¬ 
vantage, yet being an eternal one, it must make up by duration 
what the temporal happiness of the great may have exceeded 
by intenseness. 

These are, therefore, the consolations which the wretched 
have peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above the 
rest of mankind; in other respects, they are below them. 
They who would know the miseries of the poor, must see life 
and endure it. To declaim on the temporal advantages they 
enjoy, is only repeating what none either believe or practice. 
The men who have the necessaries of living are not poor, and 
they who want them must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we 
must be miserable. No vain efforts of a refined imagination 
can soothe the wants of nature, can give elastic sweetness to 
the dark vapor of a dungeon, or ease the throbbings of a broken 
heart. Let the philosopher from his couch of softness tell us 
that we can resist all these : alas ! the effort by which we resist 
them is still the greatest pain. Death is slight, and any man 
may sustain it; but torments are dreadful, and these no man 
can endure. 

To us then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven 
should be peculiarly dear; for if our reward be in this life 
alone, we are then indeed of all men the most miserable. 
When I look round these gloomy walls, made to terrify as well 
as to confine us; this light, that only serves to show the hor¬ 
rors of the place; those shackles, that tyranny has imposed 
or crime made necessary; when I survey these emaciated looks, 
and hear those groans, O ! my friends, what a glorious exchange 
would heaven be for these. To fly through regions unconfined 
as air, to bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carol over 
endless hymns of praise, to have no master to threaten or in¬ 
sult us, but the form of Goodness himself forever in our eyes! 
when I think of these things, Death becomes the messenger 
of very glad tidings; when I think of these things, his sharpest 
arrow becomes the staff of my support; when I think of these 
things, what is there in life worth having ? when I think of 
these things, what is there that should not be spurned away ? 
Kings in their palaces should groan for such advantages ; but 
we, humbled as we are, should yearn for them. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


133 

And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will certainly be 
if we but try for them; and what is a comfort, we are shut out 
from many temptations that would retard our pursuit. Only let 
us try for them, and they will certainly be ours; and what is still 
a comfort, shortly too ; for if we look back on a past life, it ap¬ 
pears but a very short span, and whatever we may think of the 
rest of life, it will yet be found of less duration ; as we grow 
older, the days seem to grow shorter, and our intimacy with 
time ever lessens the perception of his stay. Then let us take 
comfort now, for we shall soon be at our journey’s end ; we 
shall soon lay down the heavy burden laid by Heaven upon us; 
and though Death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little 
while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and like his hor- 
izon still flies before him, yet the time will certainly and shortly 
come, when we shall cease from our toil; when the luxurious 
great ones of the world shall no more tread us to the earth j 
when we shall think with pleasure of our sufferings below 5 
when we shall be surrounded with all our friends, or such as 
deserved our friendship ; when our bliss shall be unutterable, 
and still, to crown all, unending. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Happier proipectS begin to appear.— Let us be inflexible, and fortune Vnll at last 
change in our favor. 

When I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, 
the jailer, who was one of the most humane of his profession, 
hoped I would not be displeased, as what he did was but his 
duty, observing, that he must be obliged to remove my son into 
a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to revisit me 
every morning. I thanked him for his clemency, and grasping 
my boy’s hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the great 
duty that was before him. 

I again therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones 
sat by my bedside reading, when Mr. Jenkinson entering, in¬ 
formed me that there was news of my daughter; for that she 
was seen by a person about two hours before in a strange gen¬ 
tleman’s company, and that they had stopped at a neighboring 
village for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to town. 




VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ., 


*34 

He had scarcely delivered this news when the jailer came with 
looks of haste and pleasure to inform me, that my daughter was 
found. Moses came running in a moment after, crying out 
that his sister Sophy was below, and coming up with our old 
friend Mr. Burchell. 

Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl entered, and 
with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a trans¬ 
port of affection. Her mother’s tears and silence also showed 
her pleasure—“ Here, papa,” cried the charming girl, “ here is 
the brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gentleman’s 

intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness and safety-” 

A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even greater 
than hers, interrupted what she was going to add. 

“ Ah, Mr. Burchell,” cried I, “ this is but a wretched habi¬ 
tation you now find us in; and we are now very different 
from what you last saw us. You were ever our friend : we have 
long discovered our errors with regard to you, and repent of 
our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then received at my 
hands, I am almost ashamed to behold your face; yet I hope 
you’ll forgive me, as I was deceived by a base, ungenerous 
wretch, who under the mask of friendship has undone me.” 

“ It is impossible,” replied Mr. Burchell, “ that I should 
forgive you, as you never deserved my resentment. I partly 
saw your delusion then, and as it was out of my power to 
restrain, I could only pity it.” 

“ It was ever my conjecture,” cried I, “ that your mind was 
noble, but now I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how 
thou hast been relieved, or who the ruffians were who carried 
thee away.” 

“ Indeed, sir,” replied she, “ as to the villain who carried 
me off, I am yet ignorant. For, as my mamma and I were 
walking out, he came up behind us, and almost before I could 
call for help, forced me into the post-chaise, and in an instant 
the horses drove away. I met several on the road to whom I 
cried out for assistance but they disregarded my entreaties. In 
the meantime the ruffian himself used every art to hinder me 
from crying out: he flattered and threatened by turns, and 
swore that if I continued but silent he intended no harm. In 
the meantime I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, 
and whom should I perceive at some distance but your old 
friend Mr. Burchell, walking along with his usual swiftness, 
with the great stick for which we so much used to ridicule him. 
As soon as he came within hearing, I called out to him by 
name, and entreated his help. I repeated my exclamation sev- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


*35 


eral times, upon which, with a very loud voice, he bid the pos¬ 
tilion stop ; but the boy took no notice, but drove on with still 
greater speed. I now thought he could never overtake us, 
when, in less than a minute, I saw Mr. Burchell come running 
up by the side of the horses, and with one blow knock the pos¬ 
tilion to the ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon 
stopped of themselves, and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths 
and menaces drew his sword, and ordered him at his peril to 
retire ; but Mr. Burchell running up shivered his sword to 
pieces, and then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile ; but 
he made his escape. I was at this time come out myself, willing 
to assist my deliverer; but he soon returned to me in triumph. 
The postilion, who was recovered, was going to make his es¬ 
cape too; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril to mount 
again and drive back to town. Finding it impossible to resist 
he reluctantly complied, though the wound he had received 
seemed to me at least to be dangerous. He continued to com¬ 
plain of the pain as we drove along, so that he at last excited 
Mr. BurchelPs compassion, who at my request exchanged him 
for another, at an inn where we called on our return.” 

“ Welcome, then,” crie.d I, “ my child ! and thou, her gal¬ 
lant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! Though our cheer is but 
wretched, yet oar hearts are ready to receive you. And now, 
Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my girl, if you think she is 
a recompense, she is yours; if you can stoop to an alliance 
with a family so poor as mine, take her; obtain her consent, as 
I know you have her heart, and you have mine. And let me 
tell you, sir, that I give you no small treasure: she has been 
celebrated for beauty, it is true, but that is not my meaning; I 
give you up a treasure in her mind.” 

“But I suppose, sir,” cried Mr. Burchell, “that you are 
apprized of my circumstances, and of my incapacity to support 
her as she deserves.” 

“ If your present objection,” replied I, “ be meant as an 
evasion to my offer, I desist: but I know no man so worthy to 
deserve her as you ; and if I could give her thousands, and 
thousands sought her from me, yet mv honest brave Burchell 
should be my dearest choice.” 

To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying re- 
iusal, and without the least reply to my offer, he demanded 
if we could not be furnished with refreshments from the next 
inn ; to which being answered in the affirmative, he ordered 
them to send in the best dinner that could be provided upon 
such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of their best wine 


VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 


'136 

and some cordials for me : adding with a smile, that he would 
stretch a little for once, and though in a prison, asserted he was 
never better disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made his 
appearance with preparations for dinner; a table was lent us 
by the jailer, who seemed remarkably assiduous ; the wine 
was disposed in order, and two very well-dressed dishes were 
brought in. 

My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother’s mel¬ 
ancholy situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her 
cheerfulness by the relation. But it was in vain that I at¬ 
tempted to appear cheerful, the circumstances of my unfortunate 
son broke through all efforts to dissemble ; so that I was at last 
obliged to damp our mirth, by relating his misfortunes, and 
wishing that he might be permitted to share with us in this little 
interval of satisfaction. After my guests were recovered from 
the consternation my account had produced, I requested also 
that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-prisoner, might be admitted, and 
the jailer granted my request with an air of unusual submis¬ 
sion. The clanking of my son’s irons were no sooner heard 
along the passage, than his sister ran impatiently to meet him ; 
while Mr. Burchell in the meantime asked me, if my son’s name 
was George ; to which replying in the affirmative, he still con¬ 
tinued silent. As soon as my boy entered the room, I could 
perceive he regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of astonishment 
and reverence. “Come on,” cried I, “my son ; though we are 
fallen very low, yet Providence has been pleased to grant us 
some small relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored to us, 
and there is her deliverer: to that brave man it is that I am 
indebted for yet having a daughter; give him, my. boy, the 
hand of friendship ; he deserves our warmest gratitude.” 

My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and 
still continued fixed at respectful distance—“ My dear brother,” 
cried his sister, “why don’t you thank my good deliverer ? 
the brave should ever love each other.” 

He still continued in silence and astonishment till our guest 
at last perceived himself to be known, and, assuming all his 
native dignity, desired my son to come forward. Never before 
had I seen any thing so truly majestiq as the air he assumed 
upon this occasion. The greatest object in the universe, says 
a certain philosopher, is a good man struggling with adversity ; 
yet there is still a greater, which is the good man that comes to 
relieve it. After he had regarded my son for some time with 
a superior air, “ I again find,” said he, “unthinking boy, that 
the same crime ”—But here he was interrupted by one of the 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.. 


*37 

jailer’s servants, who came to inform us that a person of dis¬ 
tinction, who had driven into town with a chariot and several 
attendants, sent his respects to the gentleman that was with us, 
and begged to know when he should think proper to be waited 
upon.—“ Bid the fellow wait,” cried our guest, “ till I shall have 
leisure to receive him ; ” and then turning to my son, “ I 
again find, sir,” proceeded he, “ that you are guilty of the same 
offence, for which you once had my reproof, and for which the law 
is now preparing its justest punishments. You imagine, per¬ 
haps, that a contempt for your own life gives you a right to take 
that of another: but where, sir, is the difference between a 
duellist who hazards a life of no value, and the murderer who 
acts with greater security ? Is it any diminution of the game¬ 
ster’s fraud, when he alleges that he has staked a counter ? ” 

“ Alas, sir,” cried I, “whoever you are, pity the poor mis¬ 
guided creature ; for what he has done was in obedience to a 
deluded mother, who, in the bitterness of her resentment, 
required him, upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. Here, 
sir, is the letter, which will serve to convince you of her impru¬ 
dence, and diminish his guilt,” 

He took the letter and hastily read it over. “This,” says 
he, “ though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his 
fault as induces me to forgive him. And, now, sir,” continued 
he, kindly taking my son by the hand, “ I see you are surprised 
at finding me here ; but I have often visited prisons upon oc¬ 
casions less interesting. I am now come to see justice done a 
worthy man, for whom I have the most sincere esteem. I have 
long been a disguised spectator of thy father’s benevolence. I 
have at his little dwelling enjoyed respect uncontaminated by 
flattery; and have received that happiness that courts could 
not give from the amusing simplicity round his fireside. My 
nephew has been apprized of my intentions of coming here, 
and I find is arrived. It would be wronging him and you to 
condemn him without an examination; if there be injury, 
there shall be redress; and this I may say, without boasting, 
that none have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thorn¬ 
hill.” 

We now found the personage whom we had so long enter¬ 
tained as a harmless amusing companion, was no other than 
the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whose virtues and 
singularities scarcely any were strangers. The poor Mr. Bur- 
chell was in reality a man of large fortune and great interest, 
to whom senates listened with applause, and whom party heard 
with conviction; who was the friend of his country, but loyal 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


«3* 

to his king. My poor wife, recalling her former familiarity, 
seemed to shrink with apprehension; but Sophia, who a few 
moments before thought him her own, now perceiving the im¬ 
mense distance to which he was removed by fortune, was unable 
to conceal her tears. 

“ Ah, sir,” cried my wife with a piteous aspect, “ how is it 
possible that I can ever have your forgiveness ? The slights 
you received from me the last time I had the honor of seeing 
you at our house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw out 
•—these, sir, I fear, can never be forgiven.” 

“ My dear good lady,” returned he with a smile, “ if you had 
your joke, I had my answer: I’ll leave it to all the company if 
mine were not as good as yours. To say the truth, I know no¬ 
body whom I am disposed to be angry with at present, but the 
fellow who so frighted my little girl here. I had not even time 
to examine the rascal’s person so as to describe him in an ad¬ 
vertisement. Can you tell me, Sophy, my dear, whether you 
should know him again ? ” 

“ Indeed, sir,” replied she, “ I can’t be positive ; yet now I 
recollect he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows.”—“ I 
ask pardon, madam,” interrupted Jenkinson, who was by, “ be 
so good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own "edhair ? ”— 
“ Yes, I think so,” cried Sophia. “And did your honor,”con¬ 
tinued he, turning to Sir William, “ observe the length of his 
legs ? ”—“ I can’t be sure of their length,” cried the baronet, 
“ but I am convinced of their swiftness ; for he outran me, 
which is what I thought few men in the kingdom could have 
done.”—“Please your honor,” cried Jenkinson, “I know the 
man : it is certainly the same; the best runner in England ; 
ne has beaten Pinwire of Newcastle ; Timo f hy Baxter is his 
name. I know him perfectly, and the very pmce of his retreat 
at this moment. If your honor will bid Mr. Jailer let two of 
his men go with me, I’ll engage to jDroduce him to you in an 
hour at the furthest.” Upon this the jailer was called, who 
instantly appearing, Sir William demanded if he knew him. 
“Yes, please your honor,” replied the jailer, “I know Sir 
William Thornhill well, and everybody that knows anything 
of him will desire to know more of him.”—“Well, then,” said 
the baronet, “ my request is, that you permit this man and two 
of your servants to go upon a message by my authority; and 
as I am in the commission of the peace, I undertake to secure 
you.”—“Your promise is sufficient,” replied the other, “and 
you may at a minute’s warning send them over England when¬ 
ever your honor thinks fit.” 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


*39 

In pursuance of the jailer’s compliance Jenkinson was dis¬ 
patched in search of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused 
with the assiduity of our youngest boy Bill, who had just come 
in, and cUmbed up Sir William’s neck in order to kiss him. 
His mother was immediately going to chastise his familiarity, 
but the worthy man prevented her; and taking the child, all 
ragged as he was, upon his knee, “What, Bill, you chubby 
rogue,” cried he, “ do you remember your old friend Burchell ? 
and Dick too, my honest veteran, are you here? you shall find 
I have not forgot you ” So saying, he gave each a large piece 
of gingerbread, which the poor fellows ate heartily, as they had 
got that morning but a very scanty breakfast. 

We now sat down to dinner, which was almost cold, but 
previously, my arm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a 
prescription, for he had made the study of physic his amuse¬ 
ment, and was more than moderately skilled in the profession: 
this being sent to an apothecary who lived in the place, my arm 
was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief. We 
were waited upon at dinner by the jailer himself, who was will¬ 
ing to do our guest all the honor in his power. But before we 
had well dined, another message was brought from his nephew, 
desiring permission to appear in order to vindicate his inno¬ 
cence and honor; with which request the baronet complied, 
and desired Mr, Thornhill to be introduced. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest. 

Mr. Thornhill made his appearance with a smile, which 
he seldom wanted, and was going to embrace his uncle, which 
the other repulsed with an air of disdain. “ No fawning, sir, 
at present,” cried the baronet, with a look of severity: “ the 
only way to my heart is by the road of honor ; but here I only 
see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and op¬ 
pression. How is it, sir, that this poor man, for whom I know 
you professed a friendship, is used thus hardly ? His daugh¬ 
ter vilely seduced as a recompense for his hospitality, and he 
himself thrown into prison, perhaps but for resenting the insult ? 
His son, too, whom you feared to face as a man-” 



14° 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“ Is it possible, sir,” interrupted bis nephew, u that my 
uncle could object that as a crime, which his repeated instruc¬ 
tions alone have persuaded me to avoid? ” 

“ Your rebuke,” cried Sir Wiiliam, “ is just ; you have acted 
in this instance prudently and well, though not quite as your 
father would have done: my brother, indeed, was the soul of 
honor ; but thou—Yes, you have acted in this instance perfectly 
right, and it has my warmest approbation.” 

“And I hope,” said his nephew, “ that the rest of my con¬ 
duct will not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, 
with this gentleman’s daughter at some places of public amuse¬ 
ment : thus, what was levity, scandal called by a harsher name, 
and it was reported that I had debauched her. I waited on 
her father in person, willing to clear the thing to his satisfaction, 
and he received me only with insult and abuse. As for the rest, 
with regard to his being here, my attorney and steward can 
best inform you, as I commit the management of business en¬ 
tirely to them. If he has contracted debts, and is unwilling, 
or even unable to pay them, it is their business to proceed in 
this manner; and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing 
the most legal means of redress.” 

“ If this,” cried Sir William, “ be as you have stated it, there 
is nothing unpardonable in your offence ; and though your con¬ 
duct might have been more generous in not suffering this gen¬ 
tleman to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been 
at least equitable.” 

“ He cannot contradict a single particular,” replied the 
’Squire ; “ I defy him to do so ; and several of my servants are 
ready to attest what I say. Thus, sir,” continued he, finding 
that I was silent, for in fact I could not contradict him ; “thus, 
sir, my own innocence is vindicated : but though at your en¬ 
treaty, I am ready to forgive this gentleman every other offence, 
yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem excite a resent¬ 
ment that I cannot govern ; and this, too, at a time when his 
son was actually preparing to take away my life ;—this, I say, 
was such guilt, that I am determined to let the law take its 
course. I have here the challenge that was sent me, and two 
witnesses to prove it: one of my servants has been wounded 
dangerously ; and even though my uncle himself should dis¬ 
suade me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public 
justice done, and he shall suffer for it.” 

“ Thou monster,” cried my wife, “ hast thou not had ven¬ 
geance enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty ? 
I hope that good Sir William will protect us; for my son is as 


vicar op wakppipld. 


i\x 

Ihhocent as a child : I am sure he is, and never did harm to 
man.” 

“Madam,” replied the good man, “your wishes for his 
safety are not greater than mine ; but I am sorry to find his 
guilt too plain ; and if my nephew persists—” But the ap¬ 
pearance of Jenkinson and the jailer’s two servants now called 
off our attention, who entered, hauling in a tall man, very gen- 
teelty dressed, and answering the description already given of 
the ruffian who had carried off my daughter:—“ Here,” cried 
Jenkinson, pulling him in, “ here we have him; and if ever 
there was a candidate for Tyburn, this is one.” 

The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jen¬ 
kinson who had him in custody, he seemed to shrink back with 
terror. His face became pale with conscious guilt, and he 
would have withdrawn; but Jenkinson, who perceived his 
design, stopped him.—“ What, ’Squire,” cried he, “ are you 
ashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter? 
but this is the way all great men forget their friends, though I 
am resolved we will not forget you. Our prisoner, please your 
honor,” continued he, turning to Sir William, “has already con¬ 
fessed all. This is the gentleman reported to be so dangerously 
wounded. lie declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put 
him upon this affair; that he gave him the clothes he now 
wears, to appear like a gentleman; and furnished him with the 
post-chaise. The plan was laid between them, that he should 
carry off the young lady to a place of safety ; and that there he 
should threaten and terrify her ; but Mr. Thornhill was to come 
in the meantime, as if by accident, to her rescue ; and that they 
should fight awhile, and then he was to run off,—by which Mr. 
Thornhill would have the better opportunity of gaining her af¬ 
fections himself, under the character of her defender.” 

Sir William remembered the coat to have been worn by 
his nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by 
a more circumstantial account, concluding that Mr. Thornhill 
had often declared to him that he was in love with both sisters 
at the same time, 

“ Heavens! ” cried Sir William, “ what a viper have I been 
fostering in my bosom ? And so fond of public justice, too, 
as he seemed to be ! But he shall have it; secure him, Mr. 
Jailer:—yet, hold, I fear there is no legal evidence to detain 
him.” 

Upon this Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility, en¬ 
treated that two such abandoned wretches might not be ad¬ 
mitted as evidences against him, but that his servants should 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


J42 

be examined. — “Your servants!’’ replied Sir William; 
“ wretch! call them yours no longer; but come let us hear 
what these fellows have to say; let his butler be called.” 

When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his 
former master’s looks that all his power was now over. “ Tell 
me,” cried Sir William sternly, “ have you ever seen your master 
and that fellow dressed up in his clothes in company together ? ” 
—“ Yes, please your honor,” cried the butler, “ a thousand 
times : he was the man that always brought him his ladies.”— 
“ How,” interrupted young Mr. Thornhill, “ this to my face ! ” 
—“ Yes,” replied the butler, “ or to any man’s face. To tell 
you a truth, Master Thornhill, I never either loved or liked 
you, and I don’t care if I tell you now a piece of my mind.” 
—“ Now, then,” cried Jenkinson, “tell his honor whether you 
know anything of me.”—“ I can’t say,” replied the butler, 
“ that I know much good of you. The night that gentleman’s 
daughter was deluded to our house, you were one of them.”— 
“ So, then,” cried Sir William, “ I find you have brought a 
very fine witness to prove your innocence: thou stain to hu¬ 
manity ! to associate with such wretches! But,” continuing 
his examination, “ you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the 
person who brought him this old gentleman’s daughter.”— 
“ No, please your honor,” replied the butler, he did not bring 
her, for the Squire himself undertook that business : but he 
brought the priest that pretended to marry them.”—“ It is but 
too true,” cried Jenkinson, “ I cannot deny it; that was the 
employment assigned me, and I confess it to my confusion.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed the baronet, “ how every new 
discovery of his villany alarms me. All his guilt is now too 
plain, and I find his prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cow¬ 
ardice, and revenge. At my request, Mr. Jailer, set this 
young officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to me for the 
consequences, I’ll make it my business to set the affair in a 
proper light to my friend the magistrate who has committed 
him.—But where is the unfortunate young lady herself ? Let 
her appear to confront this wretch : I long to know by what 
arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to come in. Where is 
she ? ” 

“ Ah, sir,” said I, “ that question stings me to the heart; 

I was once indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries-” 

Another interruption here prevented me; for who should make 
her appearance but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was next day 
to have been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing could equal 
her surprise at seeing Sir William and his nephew here before 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


*43 

her 3 for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that 
she and the old gentleman, her father, were passing through 
the town on her way to her aunt’s, who insisted that her nup¬ 
tials with Mr. Thornhill should be consummated at her house; 
but stopping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at the 
other end of the town. It was there, from the window, that 
the young lady happened to observe one of my little boys, 
playing in the street, and instantly sending a footman to bring 
the child to her, she learned from him some account of our 
misfortunes ; but was still kept ignorant of young Mr. Thorn¬ 
hill’s being the cause. Though her father made several re¬ 
monstrances on the impropriety of going to a prison to visit 
us, yet they were ineffectual; she desired the child to conduct 
her, which he did, and it was thus she surprised us at a junc¬ 
ture so unexpected. 

Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental 
meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom excite 
our surprise but upon some extraordinary occasion. To what 
a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and 
convenience of our lives ! How many seeming accidents must 
unite before we can be clothed or fed ! The peasant must be 
disposed to labor, the shower must fall, the wind fill the mer¬ 
chant’s sail, or numbers must want the usual supply. 

We all continued silent for some moments, while my charm¬ 
ing pupil, which was the name I generally gave this young lady, 
united in her looks compassion and astonishment, which gave 
new finishing to her beauty. “ Indeed, my dear Mr. Thorn¬ 
hill,” cried she to the ’Squire, who she supposed was come 
here to succor, and not to oppress us, “ I take it a little un¬ 
kindly that you should come here without me, or never inform 
me of the situation of a family so dear to us both ; you know I 
should take as much pleasure in contributing to the relief of 
my reverend old master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as 
you can. But I find that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure 
in doing good in secret.” 

“ He find pleasure in doing good ! ” cried Sir William, in¬ 
terrupting her. “ No, my dear, his pleasures are as base as 
he is. You see in him, madam, as complete a villain as ever 
disgraced humanity. A wretch, who, after having deluded 
this poor man’s daughter, after plotting against the innocence 
of her Sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the eldest 
son into fetters because he had the courage to face her be¬ 
trayer. And give me leave, madam, now to congratulate you 
upon an escape from the embraces of such a monster.” 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


*44 

“ 0 goodness,” cried the lovely girl, “ how have I been 
deceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain that this 
gentleman’s eldest son, Captain Primrose, was gone off to 
America with his new-married lady.” 

“ My sweetest miss,” cried my wife, “ he has told you 
nothing but falsehoods. My son George never left the king¬ 
dom, nor ever was married.—Though you have forsaken him, 
he has always loved you too well to think of anybody else; 
and I have heard him say, he would die a bachelor for your 
sake.” She then proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of 
her son’s passion. She set his duel with Mr. Thornhill in a 
proper light; from thence she made a rapid digression to the 
’Squire’s debaucheries, his pretended marriages, and ended 
with a most insulting picture of his cowardice. 

“ Good Heaven! ” cried Miss Wilmot, “ how very near 
have I been to the brink of ruin ! Ten thousand falsehoods 
has this gentleman told me: he had at last art enough to per¬ 
suade me, that my promise to the only man I esteemed was no 
longer binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his false¬ 
hoods I was taught to detest one equally brave and generous.” 

But by this time my son was freed from the incumbrances 
of justice, as the person supposed to be wounded was detected 
to be an imposter. Mr. Jenkinson also, who had acted as his 
valet de chavibre , had dressed up his hair, and furnished him 
with whatever was necessary to make a genteel appearance. 
He now therefore entered, handsomely dressed in his regimen¬ 
tals ; and without vanity (for I am above it), he appeared as 
handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he en¬ 
tered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he 
was not as yet acquainted with the change which the elo¬ 
quence of his mother had wrought in his favor. But no deco¬ 
rums could restrain the impatience of his blushing mistress to 
be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to discover 
the real sensations of her heart, for having forgotten her former 
promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded by an im¬ 
poster. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, and 
could scarcely believe it real.—“ Sure, madam,” cried he, 
“ this is but delusion ! I can never have merited this ! To 
be blessed thus is to be too happy.”—“ No, sir,” replied she r 
“ I have been deceived, basely deceived, else nothing could 
have ever made me unjust to my promise. You know my 
friendship, you have long known it; but forget what I have 
done, and as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, you 
shall now have them repeated : and be assured, that if your 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


US 

Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be another’s.” “ And 
no other’s you shall be,” cried Sir William, “ if I have any in¬ 
fluence with your father.” 

This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately 
flew to the inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of 
every circumstance that had happened. But in the mean-time 
the ’Squire, perceiving that he was on every side undone, now 
finding that no hopes were left from flattery and dissimulation, 
concluded that his wisest way would be to turn and face his 
pursuers. Thus, laying aside all shame, he appeared the open 
hardy villain. “ I find, then,” cried he, “ that I am to expect 
no justice here; but I am resolved it shall be done me. You 
shall know, sir,” turning to Sir William, “ I am no longer a 
poor dependent upon your favors. I scorn them. Nothing 
can keep Miss Wilmot’s fortune from me, which, I thank her 
father’s assiduity, is pretty large. The articles and a bond for 
her fortune are signed, and safe in my possession. It was her 
fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish for this match; 
and possessed of the one, let who will take the other.” 

This was an alarming blow. Sir William was sensible of 
the justice of his claims, for he had been instrumental in draw¬ 
ing up the marriage articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, 
perceiving that her fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my 
son, she asked if the loss of her fortune could lessen her value 
to him ? “ Though fortune,” said she, “ is out of my power, at 

least I have my heart to give.” 

“ And that, madam,” cried her real lover, “ was indeed all 
that you ever had to give; at least all that I ever thought worth 
the acceptance. And I now protest, my Arabella, by all that’s 
happy, your want of fortune this moment increases my pleasure, 
as it serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity.” 

Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at 
the danger his daughter had just escaped, and readily consented 
to a dissolution of the match. But finding that her fortune, 
which was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be 
given up, nothing could exceed his disappointment. He now 
saw that his money must all go to enrich one who had no for¬ 
tune of his own. He could bear his being a rascal, but to want 
an equivalent to his daughter’s fortune was wormwood. He 
sat therefore for some minutes employed in the most mortify¬ 
ing speculations, till Sir William attempted to lessen his anxiety. 
—I must confess, sir,” cried he, “ that your present disap¬ 
pointment does not entirely displease me. Your immoderate 
passion for wealth is now justly punished. But though the 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


146 

young lady cannot be rich, she has still a competence sufficient 
to give content. Here you see an honest young soldier, who 
is willing to take her without fortune: they have long loved 
each other; and for the friendship I bear his father, my inter¬ 
est shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave then that 
ambition which disappoints you, and for once admit that hap¬ 
piness which courts your acceptance.” 

“Sir William,” replied the old gentleman, “be assured I 
never yet forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still 
continues to love this young gentleman, let her have him with 
all my heart. There is still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, 
and your promise will make it something more. Only let my 
old friend here (meaning me) give me a promise of settling six 
thousand pounds upon my girl if ever he should come to his 
fortune, and I am ready this night to be the first to join them 
together.” 

As it now remained with me to make the young couple 
happy, I readily gave a promise of making the settlement he 
required, which from one who had such little expectations as I, 
was no great favor. We had now, therefore, the satisfaction of 
seeing them fly into each other’s arms in a transport.—“ After 
all my misfortunes,” cried my son George, “ to be thus reward¬ 
ed ! Sure this is more than I could have presumed to hope for. 
To be possessed of all that’s good, and after such an interval 
of pain l My warmest wishes could never rise so high ! ” 

“ Yes, my George,” returned his lovely bride, “now let the 
wretch take my fortune : since you are happy without it, so am 
I. O what an exchange have I made from the basest of men 
to the dearest, best!—Let him enjoy our fortune, I now can be 
happy even in indigence.”—“ And I promise you,” cried the 
’Squire, with a malicious grin, “ that I shall be very happy with 
what you despise.”—“ Hold, hold, sir,” cried Jenkinson, “there 
are two words to that bargain. As for that lady’s fortune, sir, 
you shall never touch a single stiver of it. Pray, your honor,” 
continued he to Sir William, “ can the ’Squire have the lady’s 
fortune if he be married to another ? ”—“ How can you make 
such a simple demand ? ” replied the baronet: “ undoubtedly 
he cannot.”—“ I am sorry for that,” cried Jenkinson ; “ for as 
this gentleman and I have been old fellow-sporters, I have a 
friendship for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that 
his contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is married 
already.”—“You lie, like a rascal,” returned the ’Squire, who 
seemed roused by this insult; “ I never was legally married to 
any woman,” 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


H7 

“ Indeed, begging your honor’s pardon,” replied the other, 
4< you were ; and I hope you will show a proper return of friend^ 
ship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife; and 
if the company restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they shall 
see her.” So saying he went off with his usual celerity, and 
left us all unable to form any probable conjecture as to his de¬ 
sign. “ Ay, let him go,” cried the ’Squire; “ whatever else I 
may have done, I defy him there. I am too old now to be 
frightened with squibs.” 

“ I am surprised,” said the baronet, “what the fellow cpu 
intend by this. Some low piece of humor, I suppose.”—“ Per 
haps, sir,” replied I, “ he may have a more serious meaning. 
For when we reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has 
laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more artful than 
the rest, has been found able to deceive him. When we con¬ 
sider what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel 
with anguish the infamy and the contamination which he has 
brought into their families, it would not surprise me if some 
one of them—Amazement! Do I see my lost daughter ? Do 
I hold her ? It is, it is my life, my happiness. I thought thee 
lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee—and still thou shalt live to 
bless me.” The warmest transports of the fondest lover were 
not greater than mine, when I saw him introduce my child, and 
held my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her 
raptures. 

“And art thou returned to me, my darling,” cried I, “ to be 
my comfort in age ! ”——“ That she is,” cried Jenkinson, “ and 
make much of her, for she is your own honorable child, and as 
honest a woman as any in the whole room, let the other be who 
she will. And as for you, ’Squire, as sure as you stand there, 
this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to convince you 
that I speak nothing but the truth, here is the license by which 
you were married together.”—So saying, he put the license into 
the baronet’s hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every 
respect. “ And now, gentlemen,” continued he, “ I find you 
are surprised at all this; but a few words will explain the diffi¬ 
culty. That there ’Squire of renown, for whom I have a great 
friendship (but that’s between ourselves), has often employed 
me in doing odd little things for him. Among the rest he com¬ 
missioned me to procure him a false license and a false priest, 
in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was very much 
his friend, what did I do, but went and got a true license and 
a true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth could 
make them. Perhaps you’ll think it was generosity that made 




VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


*48 

me do all this : to my shame I confess it, my only design was 
to keep the license, and let the ’Squire know that I could prove 
it upon him whenever I thought proper, and so make him come 
down whenever I wanted money.” A burst of pleasure now 
seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy reached even to 
the common room, where the prisoners themselves sympathized, 

And shook their chains 

In transport and rude harmony. 

Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia’s 
cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to 
reputation, to friends and fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient 
to stop the progress of decay, and restore former health and 
vivacity. But perhaps among all there was not one who felt 
sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved child in 
my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not delusion, 
“ How could you,” cried I, turning to Mr. Jenkinson, “how 
could you add to my miseries by the story of her death ? But 
it matters not; my pleasure at finding her again is more than 
a recompense for the pain.” 

“As to your question,” replied Jenkinson, “that is easily 
answered. I thought the only probable means of freeing you 
from prison, was by submitting to the ’Squire, and consenting 
to his marriage with the other young lady. But these you had 
vowed never to grant while your daughter was living; there 
was therefore no other method to bring things to bear, but by 
persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife 
to join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of 
undeceiving you till now.” 

In the whole assembly there now appeared only two faces 
that did not glow with transport. Mr. Thornhill’s assurance 
had entirely forsaken him: he now saw the gulf of infamy 
and want before him, and trembled to take the plunge. He 
therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of 
piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was going 
to spurn him away, but at my request he raised him, and, after 
pausing a few moments, “ Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude,” 
cried he, “deserve no tenderness; yet thou shalt not be en¬ 
tirely forsaken—a bare competence shall be supplied to support 
the wants of life, but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, 
shall be put in possession of a third part of that fortune which 
once was thine, and from her tenderness alone thou art to 
expect any extraordinary supplies for the future.” He was 
going to express his gratitude for such kindness in a set speech \ 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


149 

but the baronet prevented him, by bidding him not aggravate 
his meanness, which was already but too apparent. He ordered 
him at the same time to begone, and from all his former do¬ 
mestics to choose one, such as he should think proper, which 
was all that should be granted to attend him. 

As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped up 
to his new niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His ex¬ 
ample was followed by Miss Wilmot and her father. My wife 
too kissed her daughter with much affection, as, to use her 
own expression, she was now made an honest woman of. 
Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor 
Jenkinson desired to be admitted to that honor. Our satisfac¬ 
tion seemed scarcely capable of increase. Sir William, whose 
greatest pleasure was in doing good, now looked round with a 
countenance open as the sun, ancl sawnothing but joy in the looks 
of all except that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some reasons 
we could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. 
“I think, now,” cried he, with a smile, “that all the company 
except one or two seem perfectly happy. There only remains 
an act of justice for me to do. You are sensible, sir,” con¬ 
tinued he, turning to me, “ of the obligations we both owe Mr. 
Jenkinson, and it is but just we should both reward him for it. 
Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make him very happy, and he 
shall have from me five hundred pounds as her fortune: and 
upon this I am sure they can live very comfortably together. 
Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making? 

Will you have him ? ”-My poor girl seemed almost sinking 

into her mother’s arms at this hideous proposal.—“Have him, 
sir!” cried she faintly: “No, sir, never.”—“What!” cried he 
again, “not have Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, a handsome 
young fellow, with five hundred pounds, and good expecta¬ 
tions ? ”—“ I beg, sir,” returned she, scarcely able to speak, 
“that you’ll desist, and not make me so very wretched.” 
“Was ever such obstinacy known ? ” cried he again, “to refuse 
a man whom the family has such infinite obligations to, who 
has preserved your sister, and who has five hundred pounds ! 
What, not have him ? ”-“ No, sir, never,” replied she an¬ 

grily ; “ I’d sooner die first.”—“ If that be the case, then,” 
cried he, “ if you will not have him—I think I must have you 
myself.” And so saying, he caught her to his breast with ardor. 
“ My loveliest, my most sensible of girls,” cried .he, “ how 
could you ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or 
that Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to admire a mistress 
that loved him for himself alone? I have for some years 




VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


*5° 

sought for a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, could think 
that I had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even 
amongst the pert and the ugly, how great at last must be my 
rapture to have made a conquest over such sense and such 
heavenly beauty! ” Then turning to Jenkinson; “ As I cannot, 
sir, part with this young lady myself, for she has taken a fancy 
to the cut of my face, all the recompense I can make is to give 
you her fortune ; and you may call upon my steward to-morrow 
for five hundred pounds.” Thus, we had all our compliments 
to repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of 
ceremony that her sister had done before. In the mean-time, 
Sir William’s gentleman appeared to tell us that the equipages 
were ready to carry us to the inn, where everything was pre¬ 
pared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and left 
those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous baronet 
ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the prisoners, 
and Mr. Wilmot, induced by his example, gave half that sum. 
We were received below by the shouts of the villagers, and I 
saw and shook by the hand two or three of my honest parish¬ 
ioners, who were among the number. They attended us to our 
inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and 
coarser provisions were distributed in great quantities among 
the populace. 

After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alterna¬ 
tion of pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the 
day, I asked permission to withdraw ; and leaving the company 
in the midst of their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I 
poured out my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy as well 
as of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The Conclusion. 

The next morning as soon as I awaked I found my eldes 
son sitting by my bedside, who came to increase my joy with 
another turn of fortune in my favor. First having released me 
from the settlement that I had made the day before in hist 
favor, he let me know that my merchant who had failed in town 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


*5* 

was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to a 
much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My 
boy’s generosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked- 
for good fortune ; but I had some doubts whether I ought in 
justice to accept his offer. While I was pondering upon this, 
Sir William entered the room, to whom I communicated my 
doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was already pos¬ 
sessed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might ac¬ 
cept his offer without any hesitation. His business, however, 
was to inform me, that as he had the night before sent for the 
licenses, and expected them every hour, he hoped that I would 
not refuse my assistance in making all the company happy that 
morning. A footman entered while we were speaking, to tell 
us that the messenger was returned ; and as I was by this time 
ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as merry 
as affluence and innocence could make them. However, as 
they were now preparing for a very solemn ceremony, their 
laughter entirely displeased me. I told them of the grave, be¬ 
coming and sublime deportment they should assume upon this 
mystical occasion, and read them two homilies, and a thesis of 
my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they still 
seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we 
were going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity 
had quite forsaken them, and I was often tempted to turn back 
in indignation. In church a new dilemma arose which promised 
no easy solution. This was, which couple should be married 
first. My son’s bride warmly insisted that Lady Thornhill (that 
was to be) should take the lead: but this the other refused 
with equal ardor, protesting she would not be guilty of such 
rudeness for the world. The argument was supported for some 
time between both with equal obstinacy and good-breeding. 
But as I stood all this time with my book ready, I was at last 
quite tired of the contest; and shutting it, “ I perceive,” cried 
I, “ that none of you have a mind to be married, and I think 
we had as good go back again ; for I suppose there will be no 
business done here to-day.” This at once reduced them to 
reason. The baronet and his lady were first married, and then 
my son and his lovely partner. 

I had previously that morning given orders that a coach 
should be sent for my honest neighbor Flamborough and his 
family; by which means, upon our return to the inn, we had 
the pleasure of finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted 
before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my 
son Moses led up the other (and I have since found that he has 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


n* 

taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he 
shall have, whenever he thinks proper to demand them.) We 
were no sooner returned to the inn, but numbers of my par¬ 
ishioners, hearing of my success, came to congratulate me : but 
among the rest were those who rose to rescue me, and whom 
I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told the story to 
Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and reproved them 
with great severity; but finding them quite disheartened by 
his harsh reproof, he gave them half a guinea a-piece to drink 
his health, and raise their dejected spirits. 

Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertain^ 
ment, which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill’s cook. And it may 
not be improper to observe with respect to that gentleman, that 
he now resides, in quality of companion, at a relation’s house, 
being very well liked, and seldom sitting at the side table, except 
when there is no room at the other; for they make no stranger 
of him. His time is pretty much taken up in keeping his rela¬ 
tion, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to 
blow the French horn. My eldest daughter, however, still 
remembers him with regret; and she has even told me, though 
I make a secret of it, that when he reforms she may be brought 
to relent. But to return, for I am not apt to digress thus; 
when we were to sit down to dinner our ceremonies were going to 
be renewed. The question was, whether my eldest daughter, 
as being a matron, should not sit above the two young brides; 
but the debate was cut short by my son George, who proposed 
that the company should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman 
by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, 
excepting my wife, who, I could perceive, was not perfectly 
satisfied, as she expected to have had the pleasure of sitting 
at the head of the table, and carving the meat for all the com¬ 
pany. But, notwithstanding this, it is impossible to describe 
our good-humor. I can’t say whether we had more wit among 
us now then usual; but I am certain we had more laughing, 
which answered the end as well. One jest I particularly re¬ 
member : old Mr. Wilmot winking to Moses, whose head was 
turned another way, my son replied, “ Madam, I thank you.’' 
Upon which the old gentleman, drinking upon the rest of the 
company, observed, that he was thinking of his mistress: at 
which jest I thought the two Miss Flamboroughs would have 
died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over, according 
to my old custom, I requested that the table might be taken 
away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my family assembled 
once more by a cheerful fireside. My two little ones sat upon 


VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 


J 53 

each knee, the rest of the company by their partners. I had 
nothing now on this side of the grave to wish for ; all my cares 
were over ; my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only re¬ 
mained, that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my 
former submission in adversity. 







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Iu Peril Of His Life. By Emile Gaboriau. 

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Sartor Resartus. By Thomas Carlyle. 

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Ladies’ Etiquette. 

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Needles and Brushes, Embroidery and Fancy Work. ‘ 
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Arabian Nights (The) 

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Beyond Pardon. By Bertha M. Clay. 

Broken Wedding Ring (A). By Bertha M. Clay. 

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Cardinal Sin (A). By Hugh Conway. 

Children of The Abbey. By Maria Roche. 

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Doris. By “ The Duchess. ” 

Dora Thorne. By Bertha M. Clay. 

Dick’s Sweetheart. By “The Duchess.” 

Dunallan. By Grace Kennedy. 

Earl’s Atonement (The). By Bertha M. Clay. 

12 



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Eugene Aram. By Bulwer Lytton. 

Endymion. By Benjamin Disraeli. 

Faith and Unfaith. By “ The Duchess.” 

Felix Holt. By Geo. Eliot. 

For Lilias. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Green Pastures and Picadilly. By Wm. Black. 

Great Expectations. By Chas. Dickens. 

Heart and Science. By Wilkie Collins. 

Henry Esmond. By Wm. M. Thackeray. 

Her Desperate Victory. By Mrs. M. L. Rayne. 

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Margaret and Her Bridesmaids. By Julia Stretton. 

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Mill On The Floss. By Geo. Eliot. 

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Old Myddelton’s Money. By Mary Cecil Hay. 

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Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. 

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Three Feathers. By Wm. Black. 

To The Bitter End. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

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Tom Brown At Oxford. By Thomas Hughes. 

13 


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Under Two Flags. By Ouida. 

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Guy Mannering. By Sir Walter Scott. 

Heart of Midlothian. By Sir Walter Scott. 

I vanlioe. By Sir Walter Scott. 

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Last Hays of Pompeii. By Bulwer Lytton. 

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Washington and Marion (Life of). 

Webster (Life of). By Samuel Smucker, LL.D. 

HUMOROUS FICTION. 

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Handy Andy By Samuel Lover. 

Harry Lorrequer. By Charles Lever. 

Rory O’More. Samuel Lover. 

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Imitation of Christ. By Thos. a Kempis. 

Is Life Worth Living. By W. H. Mallock. 

Pilgrim’s Progress (The). By John Bunyan. 

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Five Years Before The Mast. By W. B. Hazen. 

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Midshipman (The). ByW. H. Kingston. 

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Pilot (The). By Fenimore Cooper. 

Pirate (The). By Sir Walter Scott. 

Red Eric (The). By R. M. Ballantyne. 

Round The World. ByW. H. Kingston. 

Salt Water. By Sir Samuel Baker. 

14 


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Tom Cringle’s Log. By Michael Scott. 

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Hyperion. By H. W. Longfellow. 

Outre Mer. By II. W. Longfellow. 

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His Way and Her Will. 

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